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(Founded on " Les Ganaches," by Victokien Sardou). 



TT Wr ROBERTSON, 



6 

CHARACTERS. 


Lord Mojipesson. 


John Ferne. 


The Hon. Arthur Moiipesson. 


Mr. Danby. 


Dr. Brown. 


Wykeham. 


Mr. Bunntthorne. 


Eva. 


Bob Bunntthorne. 


Miss Myrnie 



Scene. — Mompesson Alley. 



A lapse of two mouths between the First and Second Acts 
lapse of one night letween the Second and Third. 



t 



C TC frw. «t frV» . xi 



ACT I. 



Scene I. — Drawing-room in Mompesson Abbey. Door c. Small 
door R. Old-fashioned large Jire-place R. Scene enclosed. 
Window L. (See diagram.) Outside window, garden and 
park seen. The trees covered with snow. Large fire burning. 
Pictures on walls, 8rc. Sofas, chairs, couches, tables, all old- 
fashioned. An air of great antiquity, and tumble-down com- 
fort about everything. Vestiges of feudalism ranged here and 
there. 




Enter Danby and Ferne, conducted by Wykeham, c. d. 
Ferne carries a portfolio. 



Wyk. {An old servant, of about 66.) If you'll be good enough 
to sit down, gentlemen, Mr. Arthur will see you directly. 

[Exit Wykeham, c. d. 

Fer. A fire — a lovely fire. My fingers are almost frozen. 

Dan. So odd that I should find you sketching and planning 
as I drove past. It's more than two years since we met. 

Fer. I was going to call here when I'd finished my plan. 
I have business with Lord Mompesson. 

Dan. With old Lord Mompesson ? You'll find it difficult 
to transact business with him. 

Fer. Why? 



Dan. He never attends to business. He's too old. 

Fer. Too old ! A man of fifty ? 

Dan. Fifty ! Why, he's over eighty ! 

Fer. What ! is not the old lord dead yet ? 

Dan. ~No. I suppose you're thinking of his only son, the 
Honourable Arthur. Do you know him ? 

Fer. I did some years ago. 

Dan. How was that ? 

Fer. My grandfather was a tenant. 

Dan. Oh, yes; I remember. Before '32 ? 

Fer. Yes. They quarrelled with my father about his vote 
on that occasion. My father left the farm. 

Dan. And took to scientific drainage ; lucky for you, for 
thanks to that, here you are, at thirty years of age, a rising 
engineer, making a fortune and a name. 

Fer. Never mind that. Tell me about the Mompesson 
family. But, first, how is it I find you here ? 

Dan. Don't you know? Since my father-in-law retired 
from practice I'm the family lawyer. 

Fer. And the old lord is still living ? 

Dan. Yes, — that is, he lives a little, preparatory to dying 
a great deal. 

Fer. He was a very old man when I was quite a boy. 

Dan. Of course ! You know the story, don't you ? The old 
lord — always a poor man — had hopes for his son in Parlia- 
ment, so in '29 he bought a rotten borough — Wapshot-cum- 
Chuddock. 

Fer. Which in '32 was disfranchised. 

Dan. Just so — and the family was ruined. However, there 
was but one son — this Arthur — who at that time was in the 
Guards, a fine, handsome, young officer. Well, father and 
son took this misfortune so to heart that young Arthur left 
the army, and, with his father, settled down here in the old 
Abbey, on their own estate, near Stickton-le-Clay, and 
have given no attention to politics or public life ever since. 
This, they say, is a degenerate, peddling age, and they will 
have none of it ; they have cut the world — a slight of which 
the world is quite unconscious. 

Fer. And what sort of a man has the Honourable Arthur 
crusted into ? 

Dan. A country gentleman of the old school. Urbane, re- 
fined, polished, and prejudiced. A great man at Quarter Ses- 
sions — and at the County Ball. A crystallized Quixote, doing 
battle with everything new. 



Per. Is he clever ? 

Dan. He has a gentlemanly intellect, somewhat narrow- 
minded — and large-hearted. He is a noble fellow despite his 
prejudices. High-minded, chivalric, brave, and courteous. 
He would have made a splendid crusader, if he'd had the 
ill-luck to have been born six hundred years ago. Chop him 
into mincemeat, and every atom would be gentleman. 

Fer. And such a man can shut himself up in this hole of a 
village ! 

Dan. With his father — to whom he is devoted. He has 
also another attached friend, who almost lives in the house. 
One Dr. Brown — a most amusing inconsistency — moral, poli- 
tical, and medical. A radical — a chartist — a republican of 
the reddest dye; a materialist of the old French revolu- 
tionary type ; an adorer of Cromwell, Voltaire, Robespierre, 
and William Cobbett ; a man who wants to root up thrones 
and pull down churches — behead kings and burn clergymen — 
in the cause of order, law, liberty, equality, and fraternity. But 
with all this old-world folly the Doctor is an excellent man ; 
high-minded and straightforward ; a most skilful physician ; 
indeed, it is he who keeps the old lord alive. 

Fer. But how does the Doctor — this acid of radicalism, agree 
in the same house with the alkali of aristocracy ? 

Dan. Meaning the Honourable Arthur ? Admirably. They 
used to hate each other, but when Arthur Mompesson fell 
from his horse in the hunting- field and broke his leg, the Doc- 
tor attended him, and, ever since, their personal attachment 
has been equal to their political antagonism. They discuss 
and quarrel over their wine. Let me tell you the Doctor is a 
teetotaller. Oh ! how they discuss. Then there are two other 
people here, quite characters. 

Fer. Who are they ? 

Dan. Old Bunnythorne, a retired contractor : — supplied 
provisions for the Navy; his father made a fortune at 
Portsmouth during the war. 

Fer. And what is he like ? 

Dan. Oh ! he too grumbles at everything new, and growls 
a perpetual chorus of compliments to the good old times. 
Not that he has much cause to grumble. Oh, yes ! I forgot. 
He has one. 

Fer. What's that ? 

Dan. His son, — his only son, — Bob, a conceited young lout 
who, because his father won't give him money to go up to 
London to waste his time and health there, gets drunk at the 



"Mornpesson Arms " here every night in the society of Miss 
Brill the barmaid and one Jack Topham, a man much looked 
up to in these parts by ostlers and stable-boys. Bob, too, 
considers himself quite a literary character. 

Fer. Why? 

Dan. I don't know. I suppose because he can't spell 
properly, or because he's thoroughly impracticable, and never 
understands the poetry he reads. 

Fer. A very singular family group. And are there no 
women in the house ? 

Dan. Yes, two. One a Miss Myrnie, a detestable old maid, 
— scandal-loving, mischief-making, snuff-taking, poodle- 
doggy, and generally disagreeable. She is some sixteenth 
cousin, and remains here out of 

Fer. Charity? 

Dan. No; — kinsmanship. She has, perhaps, five drops of 
the Mornpesson blood in her, and that is quite enough for my 
lord and for his son. 

Fer. And the other lady ? 

Dan. Oh ! a girl of 18, — also some distant cousin. I don't 
know much about her, except that her mother made some 
mesalliance, and married a man in business. The father and 
mother dying, the girl was received here. I have been told 
that at first neither my lord nor his son cared much about 
her presence, they were so indignant at her mother's con- 
duct, but now they are both very much attached to her. 
Poor girl ! she has been very ill, and is only just recovering. 

Fer. (Looking at his watch.) Time that I should go, and 
so I must leave my card (leaves card in basket), and call again 
when I am here in two months' time. 

Dan. Won't you drive back with me and dine ? 

Fer. Impossible. I must finish my plan, and sleep in 
London to-morrow night, to meet the Board the next 
morning. (Going. ) 

Dan. Well, good bye. Stop ! You're doing well, and 
making your fortune. Why don't you get married ? 

Fer. (Smiling.) Married ! I never have the time. You 
must meet a girl at least three or four times before you 
propose to her, and what with one thing and the other 

Dan. Have you never met anyone who 

Fer. Well — yes, — (reflecting) — I did think : but no, it was 
nothing. (Looking at watch.) Matrimony doesn't go well 
with engineering, so I must die a bachelor. (Looks at watch.) 
Good bye ! 



Dan. {Shaking hands.) Goodbye. {Exit FeknE, c. d.) How 
that young fellow has got on since I first knew him ; but no 
wonder — -clever, sober, industrious 

Enter Bob, followed by Wykeham, c. d. 

Dan. (Seeing him.) Ah! this is quite another sort of 
thing. 

Wtke. Really, sir, you must not smoke anywhere but in 
the smoking-room : my lord don't like it. 

Bob. Old fool! 

Wtke. Mr. Arthur don't like it. 

Bob. Old fool! 

Wyke. And your father don't like it, sir. 

Bob. Another old fool ! There ! (putting up his pipe in ease) 
that's gone out, and now you can go out ! (Exit Wykeham.) 
Another old fool ! Everybody here 's an old fool — -except 
me. Eh ! Danby, is that you ? I thought it was my 
guv'nor. 

Dan I have not the good fortune to be your guv'nor. 

Bob. You're lucky ? 

Dan. I think so. 

[Bob to be got up like the conventional poet; bid dirty 
and slovenly, velvet coat, long black- hair, pale 
face, spectacles, a sort of pot-house Manfred."] 

Bob. My father's as much behind the age as I am above 
these wretched, stupid surroundings. I rust here — rust — 
regularly rust. I'm like a bright sword steeped in ditch- 
water. 

Dan. (Aside). More like a soft spoon steeped in beer. 

Bob. (Spouting) — 

" My thoughts from 'mid the vulgar herd gyrate from pole to pole ; 
Patience, my heart, oh rest, my brain, oh wait, my weary soul!" 

Did you ever read my poems ? My " Thoughts in a Crater ?" 

Dan. No. 

Bob. I'll lend 'em to you. They're in manuscript. 

Dan. (Quickly). Thanks. I have no time. 

Bob. The guv'nor won't let me publish. He won't give 
me the money. Could you lend me a sovereign ? 

Dan. I'd rather not, if it's all the same to you. 



Bob. Like the rest of 'em ! world ! world ! (Spouts.) 

" Patience, my heart, oh rest, my brain, oh wait, my weary soul !" 

Dan. Why not thirsty soul ? 

Bob. Danby. To the calm and dispassionate observer it is 
curious to think what an infernal old fool my father is ! If 
my poems were published in London, I should realize a for- 
tune ; then, with his capital, I could start a new magazine or 
a daily newspaper ! 

Dan. And does he refuse to indulge you to that trifling 
extent ? 

Bob. He does ! Oh, these fathers ! what misfortunes they 
are to men of genius. 

Bun. (Without.) The horse is right enough — never mind the 
horse ! Look after me ! I think I've broken something some- 
where ! 

Bob. There he is ! 

Enter Bunntthorne, c.d., Ms hat smashed ; hat and coat 
covered with snow. 

Bun. (As he enters.) Send for the doctor ! 

Dan. ) What is the matter ? 

Bob. j What's happened, guv'nor ? 

Bun. I was driving back — everything was white with snow 
— and, I suppose, I got off the road into the ditch. Down we 
went — and then on one side — b-r-r-r-r-r. What weather ! 
There never used to be any snow in the winter when I was a 
young man ! 

Bob. No snow ? 

Bun. At least, if there was, the snow wasn't cold, and it never 
filled up the ditches. Everything has degenerated, even the 
snow ! 

Bob. Guv'nor, the fact is, if you don't know how to drive, 
you should get somebody to drive you. 

Bun. Hold your tongue ! It was that beast of a horse ; but 
there are no horses now-a-days ! No beasts worth their straw ! 

Bob. No beasts ? 

Bun. Except you ! Why didn't you come home last night F 

Bob. I slept at Jack Topham's. 

Bun. Jack Topham's ! A nice acquaintance for a young 
man of fortune ! 

Bob. Pretty fortune ! Ten bob a week for pocket-money ! 



Bun. With your prospects ! 

Bob. Pretty prospects ! Stickton-le-Clay and its neigh- 
bourhood ! 

Bun. Hold your tongue ! 

Bob. Can't I speak ? 

Bun. No ! Not when your father's been thrown out of a gig ! 

Bob. I wish to console you. 

Bun. Console — humbug ! Hold your tongue ! 

Bob. I shan't ! 

Enter Dr. Brown. Blue coat, brass buttons, darh drab 
breeches and gaiters, all loose and easy, spotlessly 
clean; very loose large white neckerchief; red 
healthy face ; a homely grandeur about the man ; 
long white hair flowing over the coat collar. 

Doc. Now, what's all this fuss about ? 

Bob. The guv'nor's spilt himself. 

Bun. I didn't — it was the gig. The gigs never used to 
spill in my time. 

Doc. (Feeling his arms, 8fc.) Stand up. Move your arms 
— so. 

. Bob. (To Danby.) The gig spilt him, — reasonable, isn't it? 
Nice lot of old fools I'm condemned to waste my burning 
youth among. 

Doc. You're all right. (To Bunnythorne.) Perhaps a 
bruise or two. I'll make you up an embrocation. 

Bob. You're not hurt. (Spouts.) 

" For the linnet loves its egglets ere a feather deck their wings ; 
And the love-birds peck their mother, as their lullaby she sings." 

Doc. What, ain't you dead yet ? (To Bob.) 

Bob. Doctor ! 

Doc. At the rate you're going it, I give you eighteen months 
longer. You're as white as a sheet. Look at your liver, sir ! 
— look at it ! I should like you to see your own liver. 

Bun. I shouldn't. 

Bob. Really, if I'm treated in this way, I'll go 

Bun. Do — do — and don't come back. 

Bob. Such language to your own son 

Doc. Pooh ! Parentage is a mere accident. 

Bun. Accident ! In this case it's an offence. 

Bob. Of all the ignorance 



Enter the Hon. Arthur Mompesson, c. d. (Morning 
dress of the late Duke of Wellington, blue frock 
coat, buff waistcoat, black stock, grey trousers, 
grey hair.) 

Art. Good morning, my dear Mr. Danby. I fear I've kept 
you waiting. 

Dan. I have some leases that want renewing, and a few 
other papers to submit to Lord Mompesson. 

Art. He will be here directly. Bunnythorne, I hear 
you've had a bad fall. 

Bun. All falls are bad now-a-days. Augh ! I've no patience. 
When I used to fall, thirty years ago, I didn't feel it half so 
much. 

Bob. You were younger then. 

Bun. I was not. (In a passion.) Don't talk to me. 

Doc. Don't excite yourself. You'll bruise your — intellect. 

Bob. He won't feel it in that quarter. (Aside.) 

Enter Miss Myrnie, c. d. (an old maid o/53, rusty black 
silk, and mortified manner of a pew-opener.) She 
carries in her arms a little lap-dog. 

Miss Mtr. (Carneying.) Good morning, dear Mr. Arthur. 
I was not down soon enough to meet you at breakfast. (To 
dog.) Wish Mr Arthur good morning, Pamela. Dear Mr. 
Bunnythorne, how do you do ? 

Bun. Black and blue all over. 

Miss Mtr. And dear Robert, too. (Bob nods sulkily.) And 
the Doctor. (Aside.) An irreligious wretch. (To dog.) 
Never mind him, Pamela ; he shall not harm us. 

Arthur and Danbt talking near fire-place r. Bob 
seated r. Bunnythorne and Doctor l. 

Oh, Mr. Bunnythorne, here's your newspaper. (Giving it.) 

Bun. (Unfolding paper.) And a pretty thing a newspaper 
is now-a-days. Why, they sell some of 'em for a penny. Nice 
news they must contain for a penny ! 

Doc. Ay, indeed ; Cobbett's Weekly Register 

Bun. Bother Cobbett ! 

Doc. Don't abuse Cobbett. 

Art. Why not ? He abused everybody. 



Doc. You must not touch giants. Respect the ashes of the 
great Cobbett, and of Cromwell, and 

Art. Cromwell — a butcher ! 

Bun. No ; a brewer. 

Dan. (Aside). Now they Ve begun. 

Bun. I always liked Cromwell. 

Doc. Why? 

Bun. Because he was a brewer. 

Art. And rose from his malt-tubs to usurp a throne. A 
regicide ! 

Doc. That was his great merit. He taught indignant peo- 
ples to kill kings. 

Miss M. Listen to him, Pamela, and bite him when he's not 
looking. (To dog.) 

Doc. The three great epochs of modern times were '89, '32, 
and '48 ; since then the world has ceased to move. Cromwell 
showed the French the way to deal with despots. 

Bob. I don't think much of Cromwell. 

Doc. You don't think much of Cromwell ? You ! I won- 
der what Cromwell would have thought of you. 

Bob. His killing of Charles 

Art. Assassination ! 

Doc.) Righteous execution ! ~), ,, 

Art. [Infamous assassination \) $ 

Bob. His suppression of his breathing apparatus. There ! 
Cromwell was only an imitator ; Brutus killed Ca?sar in the 
capitol long ago. 

Bun. In the good old times ! 

Doc. What the devil 

Art. (Pointing to Miss Myrine). Hush ! hush ! 

Bun. (Who has oeen reading paper) Another railway acci- 
dent. Go it ! go it ! nineteenth century ! 

Art. Not a fatal accident, I hope. 

Bun. One woman killed ! 

Doc. Only a woman ! 

Miss M. Only a woman ! 

Doc. I meant only one woman. 

Art. Are you disappointed that a dozen were not sacri- 
ficed to this modern scientific apparatus for swift slaughter ? 

Doc. Woman, considered from the point of view of reason, 
is an inferior animal to man. 

Miss M. The villain! (To Dog). You hear what he says 
of us, my dear ? 



10 

Doc. Anatomy proves it. 

Art. Anatomy ! What has the mutilation and desecration 
of the dead to do with the beauty of a life ? What has the 
grace, charm, goodness, heroism, patience, the mind, the soul, 
to do with anatomy ? 

Doc. Nothing whatever. I speak as a materialist. Wo- 
man 

Miss M. (Rising). Doctor, if you are going to use bad 
language we will retire. 

Doc. Miss Myrnie, when I said woman I meant nothing per- 
sonal to you. (Miss Myrnie, appeased, sits down again; the 
c. door is opened ly Wykeham, Lord Mompesson led by Eva 
enters. 

[Lord Mompesson, an old man of 80, in a dressing- 
gown and shidl-cap. 

Lord M. Good morning, good folks, good morning. Mr. 
Danby, how do you do ? Excuse me for having kept you wait- 
ing. Arthur have you made my excuses to Mr. Danby ? My 
good Doctor, you don't know how much I am indebted to my 
good nurse. She's been reading to me this morning. She is 
quite my gouvernante. 

Miss M. Good morning, my lord! (To Eva). Good 
morning, dear ! (Aside). He never asks me to read to him. 
Ah, (To dog) Pamela, we have none of the beauty of the 
serpent when the serpent's an egg ! 

Dr. Miss Eva is the best nurse in the world. 

Lord M. Why — why — why did you not come here sooner, 
Eva ? You've not been here — no, not twelve months ; and 
we're all in love with you, ar'nt we, eh ? 

Miss M. (Aside). I'm not in love with her. Ah, these 
men ! They never will understand women ! 

Eva. Oh ! Don't talk in that way. You'll make me so vain ! 
You'll spoil me ! 

' Bun. (To Bob). Go and talk to her. If you are a poet, 
behave as such. [Bob gets near to Eva. r.h. 

Art. Mr. Danby has some business — if you could see him. 
(To Lord Mompesson). 

Bob. (Aside). She is not a patch upon Miss Brill at the 
" Arms." (To Eva). Eva, you've never read my poems ? 

Eva. No ; I've been so well lately, and the weather 's been 
so fine. 



11 

Bob. Then you don't know my lines— — (Spouting) 

" When the white -winged wind woos winter, and the robin flees the wold, 
And the lover leaves his lyre lest his fire turn to cold." 

Pretty lines, ar'nt they ? 

Eta. Very. What do they mean ? 

Lord M. Mr. Danby, come with me. Come into my room. 

Art. Shall I 

Lord M. No, no. When we want yon we'll send for you. 
(Arthur opens door. Danby offers his arm to Lord Mompesson. 
They loth go out. CD.) 

Bob. (Pursuing Eva) — 

" For the Mayflies live in summer, though their life last but a day : 
And the summer of a lover is as one eternal May." 

Eva. (Turning over card-lashet). This yonng man always 
smells so dreadfully of tobacco. (Sees Ferne's card, starts) Oh ! 

Art. What's the matter ? 

Eva. Nothing. (Aside). Has he been here ? 

Bun. Pretty couple, ar'nt they ? 

Miss M. I don't know. I never recognize couples. I con- 
sider them improper. 

Doc. Why so ? There's you and Pamela. 

Art. I don't consider Bob pretty. 

Bun. But he will be — he will be. I was just the same at 
his age. 

Art. That hardly reassures me. But what do you mean ? 

Bun. I mean, — why not marry them ? 

Art. 

Miss. M. I (Astounded.) What ? 

Doc. 

Bun. Make 'em man and wife. Bob would turn steady, 
and 

Miss M. I don't like marriages, unless they are contracted 
in a Christian spirit. 

Art. (His pride wounded.) A member of my family. 

Bun. Exactly ! Family on your side, money on mine. 

Art. Money. 

Eva. Can he have been here ? (Aside.) 

Doc. Pooh ! Pooh ! Eva can't marry. 



Art. 
Miss M 



[Certainly not 



12 

Bun. Why not ? 

Doc. Why not ? She is hardly convalescent. She has 
not entirely got over her last illness. Look at her now ; — 
her eyes dilated ; the nostrils distended ; the short, catchy 
breathing, — all signs of poor, thin, weak, bad blood. 
Art. Bad blood ! My cousin ! 

Bun. We Bunnythornes have always had good, rich blood ! 
Look at the spots on Bob's face. 

Art. J The blood of the Mompessons ! ) (rp 0Qe fi e \ 
Bun. j The blood of the Bunnythornes ! j ^ " "' 
Doc. Blood ! What is blood? (Contemptuously.) 

Bun. \ Oh ! don't begin 

Art. I For goodness' sake \ (T ther n 

Miss M. r Never mind them, Pamela ! I 

Bob. J (Spouting.) " When the watch- , 

dog barks his welcome." j 

Enter Wtkeham, c. d. 

Wtk. Lunch is on the table, sir. 

Art. I have lunched. 

Bun. I have not ; — but I will. (Rising.) 

Miss M. So will I. (Rising.) 

Doc. And I. (Rising.) 

Bob. Eva !■ — may I 

Eva. (Thinking of card.) No, thanks, I never lunch. 
Bob. Nor I. I've no appetite. 

Doc. I should think not, the life you lead. Gro back to 
the public-house. 

Bun. Leave the boy alone ; you're always at him. 

Doc. So are you. 

Bun. But I'm his father. 

Bob. And I wish you weren't. (Spouts.) 

" Patience, my heart, oh rest, my brain, oh wait, my weary soul ! " 

Miss M. A set of brutes ! 

[Exeunt all but Eva and Arthur, c. d. 

Eva r, Arthur l. 

Eva. How could that card find its way here ? 

Art. (Looking at her.) 19, — 19 from 50 ; 9 from 10, 1 ; 2 

from 53, 31 ; 31 years. It's a long time to look forward 

to, but a short time to look back on. I feel as young as ever, 



13 

— younger ; for I can appreciate the love of a good woman, 
as no lad of 20 knows how. {Mournfully. ) Perhaps because 
I can no longer inspire it. A wasted life. A wasted life ! 
And Arthur Mompesson, the dandy Guardsman, has sunk into 
an old bachelor with a talent for whist. Augh ! (Sighs) That 

cub Bob ! Old Bunnythorne to dare to Why not ? 

Bob is her own age. Oh, youth ! youth ! To think that 
Bob should be so young and I should be so old. (Grossing to 
R.) Eva ! (Eva starts.) What are you thinking of? 

Eva. (Placing card in, basket.) Thinking of — nothing. 

Art. Why, your eyes are quite animated ; and there is a 
flush on your cheek that gives you an expression as of a rose 
surprised. 

Eva. Oh, cousin, you're very complimentary ! 

Art. Has anything happened ? 

Eva. No! 

Art. You are looking much better these last few weeks. 

Eva. Yes ; I think my illness has passed. Everybody 
was very kind to me — you especially. 

Art. And are you really happy with us ? 

Eva. Very happy ! 

Art. And have no regrets — no thoughts of those you have 
left? 

Eva. Oh, yes ! I sometimes think of them. They were 
very good people. 

Art. Very good sort of people, no doubt, for tradespeople. 

Eva. But tradespeople are as good as anybody else ? 

Art. Humph ! (Doubtfully.) 

Eva. You know papa died so suddenly that he left mamma 
very poor ; and as mamma was not noticed by her family, she 
was forced to work. 

Art. (Aside.) A Mompesson work ! 

Eva. And the Dobbses took a great deal of notice of her. 

Art. The Magasin des Modes people ? 

Eva. Yes ; and were very kind to her and to me, and paid 
my doctor's bill, and waited on me. Oh ! so tenderly ! 

Art. No doubt the Dobbses are very good people, and must 
have expended a considerable sum of money on your account. 
I'll write to them to thank them, and enclose them a cheque 
for a hundred pounds. I suppose that will be enough ? 

Eva. Oh, you mustn't do that ! 

Art. Why not ? 

Eva. You'd offend them ! The Dobbses are very proud. 



14 

Art. Oh, the Hobbses are proud, are they ? To think that 
pride could find a residence among the Hobbses. 

Eva. Not Hobbses — -Dobbses. 

Art. Dobbses ? 

Eva. They are truly noble people ! 

Art. Noble? 

Eva. Not by descent, but feeling. 

Art. Feeling? 

Eva. Heart! 

Art. Heart? Then you think that the qualities of the 
heart level all distinctions ? 

Eva. I do. 

Art. All distinctions? 

Eva. Yes ! 

Art. Rank — birth? 

Eva. Yes! 

Art. Genius — talent — wealth ? 

Eva. Yes! 

Art. Age ? — youth ? (Changing his voice.) 

Eva. Yes ! (A pause.) Youth and age are only accidents. 
If one is good and kind and tender, what does it matter in 
what year one was born ? 

Art. (Quickly.) Not a bit ! — not a bit ! I like the liberality 
of your sentiments, and — and — if — if — a — a man — or a woman 
I should say girl — were to fall in love — with — with — each 
other — the question of age need not 

Enter Wtkeham, c. d. 

Wtk. My lord wishes to see you for a few minutes. 

Art. Yes. I'll come — I . Excuse me, cousin (Talcing 

her hand.) I was just going to say something which . 

I'll be back directly. [Exeunt Arthur and Wtkeham, c. d. 

Eva. I cannot help wondering how that card came here. 

He must have called ; and if he called he must (Looking 

into card-basket.) (Miss Mtrnie opens the little door R. and 
watches Eva.) The card looks quite new. (Going to window.) 
It's more than a year now since I saw him. (At ivinclow starts.) 
Why, there he is, sketching! No! I'm right ! it is he! (Trying 
to open window.) Oh, these nasty old windows. (Opens window 
and beckons?) He doesn't see me. I'll send to him. Now 
he sees me ! Here — here ! Go round there to the left — to the 
door. How d'ye do ? how d'ye do ? I am so glad to see you. 



(Coughs and places Iter hand on lier chest, then shuts window.) 
Oh, the cold air. I've not recovered yet. 

Enter Ferne, c. d. Miss Myrnie closes door, r. 

Fer. Somebody certainly beckoned me in. {Seeing Eva.) 
Eh, Eva ! yon here ? 

Eva. Yes, me. Didn't you see me at the window ? 

Fer. Was that yon ? 

Eva. Bnt why did yon not come in without waiting to be 
asked. My uncle, Lord Mompesson, would be very glad to 
see you. 

Fer. Your uncle, Lord 

Eva. My grand-uncle. 

Fer. Lord Mompesson ? 

Eva. Yes. My mother's uncle. Since I saw you in London 
I've come to live with them. 

Fer. You surprise me ! I knew that your mamma was of 
good family, but not 

Eva. I've been here eight months, and they're all so kind 
to me. How are the Dobbses ? 

Fer. The Dobbses ? I haven't seen them since I last saw 
you there. I've been abroad. 

Eva. Where? 

Fer. In Russia principally. 

Eva. Engineering ? 

Fer. Engineering. 

Eva. I had a letter from Mrs. Dobbs last week. I saw your 
card there just now. So kind of you to call and see me. 

Fer. To call and see you. (Aside.) She will have it 1 
came to see her ; though I did not know she lived here. 

Eva. How came you to be in this neighbourhood ? 

Fer. Eh ? oh, business ! (Aside.) I came to knock the 
house down. 

Eva. However, I must present you to my uncle ; then you 
can call when you please. Oh ! I forgot ! just now he's en- 
gaged with Mr. Danby. 

Fer. Mr. Danby ? 

Eva. Yes. Do you know him ? 

Fer. I called here with him this morning. 
Eva. Oh ! you called with him ? 

Fer. Yes. How well you're looking. Do you remember 
at the Dobbses when I used to call and see you, and you 



16 

sat in that big old armchair, by the fireside, propped up by 
pillows ? 

Eva. Oh, yes ! — yes ! That was a nice time ! 

Fke. But now the colour has returned to your cheeks. 

Eva. Come with me, and I'll show you over the Abbey, 
and by that time my uncle will be disengaged. (Crossing to L. 

Fer. But 

Eva. It's a wonderful place, the Abbey, one of the oldest in 
the kingdom. There are secret staircases and walls, and 
places I shudder as I pass, and down below — I've never been 
there, I'm too frightened — there are dungeons and cells, 
where, they say, poor people were shut up and tortured. Oh, 
horrible ! is it not ? (Lowering her voice.) Skeletons of the 
victims have been found within the last three years, and be- 
neath where we are now standing is a crypt, in which are niches 
where living women were walled up alive, and left to die in 
the dark of thirst and hunger. (Frightening herself with the 
recited.) I cannot understand. The rulers of those days were 
good men, holy abbots, and pious pastors. Why were they 
so cruel ? Thumbscrews, racks, dungeons, and burning 
stakes. Why — why — why did they brick up breathing, living 
women ? 

Hin. Because — because they lived in the good old times. 

[Exeunt Ferne and Eva, c. d. 

Miss Myrnie opens little door, r. 

Miss M. Oh, dear me ! — oh, dear me ! This is very 
bad ! — this is very bad ! I never see a young man and a 
young woman together but I suspect they care for each 
other. The wretches ! And that Arthur ! Oh, that Arthur ! 
I know he's fond of the girl. Old fool ! Why can't he 
seek a wife among his own connections — a woman of his 
own time of life — of ripe experience — mature charms, and 
pious feeling. A blessing on the heavenly side of 40 ; but, no ! 
Mr. Arthur likes youth, and a slim waist, and a child's com- 
plexion, and baby tattle about ribbons and rubbish. But men 
are like that. The idiots ! It is so ridiculous, the fuss they 
make in praise of youth. Why, everybody's had it once, 
and nobody can keep it long. Then it is so perishable. Youth 
soon fades away, but age lasts us to the latest hour. 

Enter Arthur, c. d., quickly. 



17 

Art. Now, Eva, as I was (Sees Miss Myrnie — dis- 
appointed.) Oh ! it is you, is it ? 

Miss M. Yes ; I take that liberty. Did you expect to 
find Eva ? 

Art. (l.) Yes. 

Miss M. (r.) She's not here. 

Art. Where is she ? 

Miss M. She is showing the Abbey to a young gentleman. 

Art. A young gentleman ! Bob ? 

Miss M. No, not Bob. Ah ! (Sighing). Would it were Bob ! 

Art. Eh, why ? 

Miss M. The young man is a stranger. 

Art. A stranger ! 

Miss M. A perfect stranger. She saw him at that window. 
He made signs to her, and she made signs to him. Then she 
opened the window and beckoned him to come in, and he came 
in. 

Art. (Astonished). Impossible ! How came you to know 
all this ? 

Miss M. I saw them from behind that door. 

Art. Then you were watching — listening. 

Miss M. Heaven forbid ! I hope I know my duty better. 
But — sometimes — one happens to open a door — by accident — 
when something is happening by accident, which we see by 
accident ; or, one is behind a door by accident, and one hears 
something— entirely by accident and accidentally. It's hap- 
pened to me often. 

Art. But to speak to a stranger from a window ! 

Miss M. (Crossing and closing ivindow). Why the sash is still 
open ! I thought there was a draught. 

Art. I can't believe it ! Eva, so good — so truthful ! 

Miss M. So she is ; that's what I always say. 

Art. To accuse her 

Miss M. Accuse her ! heaven forbid ; Christian charity 
forbids that I should accuse anyone. I'm defending her. 

Art. Defending her ? 

Miss M. Yes ; she can't help it. 

Art. Can't help 

Miss M. Running after a young man — after a young man 
— no — it's in her blood. 

Art. In her blood ? 

Miss M. Yes ; do you not remember twenty-four years 
ago, when her mother ran away with that low plebeian fellow 
Summers ? It was at this very window that they used to 



18 

meet (Arthur sinks in chair) Romeo and Juliet over again ; 
and it was like that villain Shakspeare to put it in a play. 

Art. (Rising). Do me the favour to ask the Doctor and Mr. 
Bunnythorne to come here. 

Miss M. With pleasure. As to dear Eva, I'm sure she's 
innocence itself. So youthful, so truthful — there's the pity. 
Innocence and youth are so apt to betray us, ain't they ? 
But as I often tell tell my Pamela, she's a darling girl. Bless 
her ! Bless her ! Bless her ! 

Exit Miss Myrnie, c. d. 

Art. Eva beckon to a strange young man ? Impossible! She 
must have known him. Some intrusive shop-boy from those 
people she was with — the— the Nobbses. A 'prentice ! I — I — 

I At this very window, too, where her mother- it 

would seem as if there were a fate in it. 

Enter Doctor and Bunnythorne. Bunnythorne in night- 
cap and dressing-gown, CD. 

Doc. Arthur, you sent for us. 

Bun. The Doctor was sending me to bed, so I came as 
I am. 

Art. I wanted your advice. I find that there is a young 
man here — a stranger — come after Eva. 

Bra.' } (Together). {Eva! 

Art. Now should his intentions be matrimonial 

Bun. Matrimonial ! Then what's to become of my boy 
Bob? 

Art. (Out of patience.) Bob ! You can't think of Eva and 
Bob. 

Bun. Why not ? They're both young. 

Art. Eva is too young. 

Doc. And too delicate. 

Bun Well, Bob's delicate, too. 

Art. But a stranger coming here without introduction, and 
sans ceremonie 

Doc. Insolent ! 

Bun. Kick him out ! 

Eva and Ferne appear at c. door, Arthur, Bunny- 
thorne and Doctor with their backs to the 



19 

audience, Miss Mtrnie at c. door. A pause, 
during which Miss Mtrnie crosses at back to door 
R., and goes off. 

Eva. (Somewhat surprised at their aggressive attitude.) Cousin, 
let me present — ■ — 

Art. Not now. Tour uncle wishes to see you upstairs. 

Eva. But before 

Art. Don't keep him waiting. Go at once, dear. 

[Exit Eva c. d. Pause. 

Fer. I presume that I must introduce myself, as Miss 
Eva— 

Art. (Stiffly) . That ceremony will not be unnecessary. 
Whom have I the honour of receiving at Mompesson Abbey ? 

Fer. My name is John Feme, civil engineer. 

Art. Feme ! a relation of the Snobbses, no doubt. ( Aside.) 

Fer. May I now inquire whom I have the honour of 
addressing ? 

Art. Certainly ! Dr. Brown. 

Dr. W. N. Brown.— No final E. 

Art. Mr. Bunnythorne. 

Bun. Late of Bunnythorne and Bingham, contractors, 
Go sport. 

Art. I am Mr. Arthur Mompesson. 

Bun. The Honourable Arthur Mompesson. 

Doc. What the devil's the Honourable to do with it ? A 
man's a man, isn't he ? 

Bun. Not invariably. Sometimes he's a gentleman. 

Art. Not often. (Aside.) 

Bun. He gave you your title of Doctor, didn't he ; — why 
not give him his title of Honourable ? 

Doc. My son wouldn't be a doctor, would he ? 

Bun. What nonsense you talk — you haven't got a son. 

Doc. There I have the advantage of you — you have. 

Art. Chut ! chut ! Mr. Feme, pray take a chair. 

[They all sit. 

R FEENE. ABTHtJB. T 

"" Db. B. Bunjtythobnb. u - 

Your name is not unfamiliar to me ! 

Fer. My grandfather was a tenant on this estate, and I 
remember you, Mr. Arthur, as we called him, perfectly. 

Art. (Aside.) A tenant ! (Aloud.) If I remember rightly, 
your grandfather had an old-fashioned name. Let me see — ■ 
Jabez — Jabez, was it not ? (Ferne assents.) 



20 

Doc. Jabez Feme ! Any relation to the Jabez Feme who 
patented the invention for drainage by means of 

Fer. His son ! My father ! 

Doc. (Rising and shaking hands with Ferne.) He was an 
honour to science and his country. 

Bun. (Grossing, and shaking ha?ids too.) So he was, for we 
bought the patent, and sold it in the colonies to an enormous 
profit. 

Doc. Profit ! Think of making two blades of grass grow 
in place of one. Think of benefiting your fellow-man ! 

Bun. Think of benefiting yourself. 

Art. May I inquire if you follow the same career of sewer- 
age your father did ? Do drains run in your family ? 

Doc. Drains don't ! Brains do ! 

Fer. But then brains are not always hereditary. I have 
already told you I am an engineer. 

Art. Pardon me ! I had forgotten. 

Fer. (Aside.) They're very disagreeable. 

Art. An engineer ! Well, engineers are the heroes of the 
hour — I should say of the minute — for the present age goes so 
fast that we have to count by minutes. 

Fer. The present age is, certainly, the age of progress. 

Art. Progress ! Yes ! That is the word. That is the 
modem slang for the destruction of everything high and noble, 
and the substitution of everything base and degrading. Pro- 
gress ! progress which pushes painting aside to make room 
for photography. But painting is old-fashioned ; and photo- 
graphy — which makes men uglier than they are by nature — 
that's progress ! Citric acid — and heaven knows what other 
abominations— have superseded grapes ; — you literally make 
wine — that is science ! Horses, which in my youth were 
considered noble animals, are pbolished for engines that smash, 
for trains that smash, for velocipedes that smash ; and the 
debris of broken wheels, boilers, bones, and shattered human 
beings, you call progress ! 

-t) ' f Bravo! bravo! beautiful. (Enthusiastically.) 

Art. As to manners, progress has indeed altered them. 
Every one is too much occupied to think, to feel, to love, or 
to improve. Progress does not permit sleep, or sentiment, or 
accomplishment, or leisure. To misquote Shakspeare — another 
illusion of my youth, and, doubtless, an impostor — " What- 
ever is done must be done quickly." Now- a- days you 
eat rapidly, you drink rapidly, you make love rapidly, you 



Bun. 
Doc 



21 

marry rapidly, you go through the Divorce Court still more 
rapidly. Luxury everywhere ; comfort nowhere. Look at 
your young men ! cynical, sarcastic — without faith in anything ; 
without warmth of heart, without generous enthusiasm — 
blase and brutal— they puff the smoke of their foul cigars in the 
faces of their mothers, or swear before their sisters. Their talk 
is slang; their morals those of betting-men. Their aim to 
dazzle for a moment— their end bankruptcy of person, for- 
tune, mind, heart, brain, body, and soul. 

Bun. I (Rising and shaking hands ivith Ar- \ rp ±i ,1 m 

Doc. J thur, then seating themselves again.) ) * ') 

true ! too true ! (Shaking their heads.) 

Doc. The world is going to the devil. 

Bun. At express speed (limited). And it used to be so 
good. We used to be so good ! Didn't we, Doctor ? 

We did ! — we did ! We used to be so good. Ah ! 

[They sigh. 

Doc. These modern fellows, with their modern fashions, 
their beards and moustaches ! 

Bun. Too lazy to shave themselves. Hairy beasts ! 

Art. So un-English- — pah ! 

Bun. And their floppy clothes, and their eyeglasses stuck 
so. (Imitating.) Ah ! — ah ! — ah ! 

Doc. And their cigars. 

Bun. (Imitating.) Ah ! — ah ! — ah ! 

Doc. Ah ! The good old times ! 

Doc' I (Together.) Ah ! The good old times. 

Doc. The men of old ! 

Art. Alfred ! the Black Prince ! the Fifth Henry ! 

Doc. Pooh ! — Jack Cade — Cromwell ! 

Art. Pooh ! Claverhouse — Marlborough ! 

Bun. Whittington, Lord Mayor of London ! 

Fer. Why not his cat ? 

Doc. Bacon ! 

Bun. Milton ! Guy Fawkes ! Mrs. Fry ! 

Doc. Thistlewood! 

Art. Pitt! 

Doc. Fox— Cobbetf>— Home Tooke ! 

Art. Junius ! 

Bun. Cock-eyed Wilkes ! 

Doc. Walter Scott ! 

Art. Byron ! 



22 

Bun. Old Parr ! Where do you find such pills now ? I 
mean, where do you find such men now ? 
Art. Where indeed ? 

-p. "I Ah! (They shake their heads mournfully over the 
R ' ( bright past and degenerate present.) 

Fer. Do I understand the meaning of this combined attack 
to be because I, as an engineer, represent modern progress ? 
If so, I accept the challenge. All that you have said 
is but to contrast the vices of the present with the vir- 
tues of the past. I cannot think that we are so bad as you 
would make us out. Vice is vice, no matter in what epoch it 
exists, and I readily admit that we are not as good as we 
should be. But, to combat your examples. We are guilty 
of moustaches ; that, you say, is un-English. How about 
Shakspeare, and Bacon, and Sir Walter Raleigh ? They wore 
beard and moustache, and they were somewhat of English- 
men. We smoke cigars. Johnson and Goldsmith smoked 
pipes. What difference ? If we smoke more, we snuff less 
than our grandfathers. You have recalled the names of men 
dead for centuries, to ask me if I could show a parallel to them 
in this year of grace ? Alfred, the Black Prince, Marlborough, 
and Pitt. Why not Pericles, Lycurgus, Alcibiades, or Solo- 
mon, or David, or Noah ? For our manners, our cynicism, 
and lassitude, let it be remembered that we no longer beat 
watchmen, or steal knockers and bell-pulls for the sake of 
showing our wit. If we use slang, at least we are not guilty 
of the brutal oaths that, in the last century, made the name 
of Englishman a by-word over Europe. On one point, too, 
I must claim superiority even for our poor, weak, little 
modern selves — we keep sober. Men do not now reel into 
a drawing-room and bend over our mothers, wives, sis- 
ters, and daughters, to pump out compliments with a breath 
reeking of fiery port, with a faltering articulation, and un- 
steady step, and a tongue so loose and unguarded that it can 
scarce refrain from insult. From the usual degradation of 
daily drunkenness we are freer than our fathers, and- • 

Bun. (Rising in indignant fury.) Who the devil are you to 
turn up your nose at a man who gets drunk '? Let me tell 
you, young sir, that I got drunk before you were born. 
Everybody got drunk before you were born. ' A parcel of 
stuck-up sober puppies ! To get drunk properly and like a 
gentleman is a very good thing ; it's — it's — it's English— 



thoroughly English, and old-fashioned — and — and — all right ! 
(Sits down, blowing the steam off.) 

Fer. You have sneered at this age because it is an age of 
progress ; I prefer to call it a period of transition. We have 
changed from the worst to the better — we are changing still, 
from bad to best ; and during this transition — I am proud to 
know that it is I — the engineer, the motive-power — who leads 
the way. 'Tis I who bring industry, invention, and capital to- 
gether ; 'tis I who introduce demand to supply. 'Tis I who 
give the word — 'tis I who direct the train that flies over valleys, 
through mountains, across rivers — that dominates the mighty 
Alps themselves. 'Tis I — the engineer- — who exchanges the 
wealth of one country against the poverty of another. I am 
broad, breathing humanity , that whirls through the air on wings 
of smoke to a brighter future. I spread civilization where- 
ever I sit a-straddle of my steed of vapour, whom I guide 
with reins of iron and feed with flames. As for the tumble- 
down old ruins I knock down in passing, what matter ? Where 
I halt towns rise, and cities spring up into being. 'Tis the 
train that is the master of the hour. As it moves it shrieks out 
to the dull ear of prejudice " Make room for me ! I must pass 
and I will ! and those who dare oppose my progress shall be 
crushed ! " Its tail of smoke is like the plume of a field-mar- 
shal ; and the rattle and motion of its wheels are as the throb 
and pulsations of the progress of the whole world. 

Art. Possibly you are right, sir. (Rising.) Coal smoke is 
better than pure air ; — the shriek of an engine is the sweetest 
harmony, and rapid motion is the sole secret of truth and 
happiness ; but in my time it was not considered the act, I 
will not say of a gentleman, but of an honest man, to make 
signs to a young lady at a window, or to enter the house 
where she lived to speak to her clandestinely. 

Fer. What! (Rising.) 

Doc. You have been observed, sir. (Rising.) 

Bun. (Rising.) The whole morning — drawing-, writing, and 
making signs at this window. 

Fee. To Eva ? 

Art. Eva ! (Aside.) (To Ferne.) To Miss Mompesson, 
my cousin ! 

Fer. I am compelled to contradict you most emphatically. 
Eva — Miss Mompesson — whom I met in London, called me 
in from that window. Until she did so, I was not aware that 
she lived here. 

Art. Then why write ? 



24 

Feb. Write ! I was not writing ; I was sketching. 

Doc. Sketching ? 

Art. In this weather ? 

Fee. Yes, a bird's-eye view of this place and the neigh- 
bourhood, by order of the company of which I am chief 
engineer. 

Abt. Eh? 

Fee. Ses ! (Showing portfolio.) We are going to make a 
branch line from Stapleton, through Broxborough and Wain- 
thrope to Stickon-le-Clay. 

Doc.\ 

Aet. I A railway here ! 

Bun.) 

Fee. Yes. (Showing drawing.') Yes, here is the line ; you 
see it cuts this park and the house in two 

Doc. 

Aet. -The Abbey ? 

Bun. J 

Fee. Yes ! The station will be built on this site. We 
must pull the Abbey doAvn. 

Aet. Pull down the Abbey! Do I hear rightly? Pull down 
the Abbey ! where my family for centuries have been born, lived, 
and died. Where I first saw the light ; where, when my 
time shall come, I hope my eyes shall darken to this world, 
to open in a brighter and a purer. Pull down the Abbey ! 
The royal gift of a king to my ancestor for faithful services in 
council and in field. A home where generations of knightly 
gentlemen and high-bred ladies have gone forth to rule the 
world and live in honour ! A church, beneath whose aisles 
saints have spoken and martyrs have been buried. A holy 
shrine, reverenced by every passing peasant, where hospi- 
tality and every earthly charity, as every spiritual good were 
sanctified in stone. Pull down the Abbey ! Sooner than see 
it trampled to dust and scattered to the winds, its stones 
shall fall and crush its master. (Giving way, sinking into chair.) 

Doc. (Going to him). Arthur ! 

Fee. I am very sorry 

Aet. We fly their cursed civflization — their genius of smoke 
— their factory palaces — their spinning-jennies — printing- 
presses, and inventions of the devil. My father and I are not 
left even this retreat. 

Bun. Here, here, here. This can soon be settled. (Taking 
portfolio). Look here; by letting the line diverge here, at 
the Park Gates, it comes round here, knocks down old 



25 

Brewster's new house, and there you are for your station ; and 
any compliment that yon may consider your due, for altering 
your plans, we shall be most happy to pay money down. 

Fer. (Taking portfolio). It only needed such a suggestion 
to recall me to a sense of my duty. I shall recommend this 
route. (To Arthur). At the same time I shall be glad, for 
your sake, Mr. Mompesson, if the Company, in considering 
the matter, should modify my instructions, and the Park and 
Abbey should remain intact. 

Art. (Rising). Tou are right, sir; and I beg your pardon 
for having for a moment doubted you. I recognize you as a 
perfect man of honour, in your way — your rail-way ; but I 
shall go to London — I will appeal against this invasion of my 
rights. (During this last speech Eva enters CD., overhearing 
the last words ; Bob appears at CD.; Miss Myrnie at door R.) 
I have friends, and powerful ones ; I will see whether a Rail- 
way Company can uproot the home of a country gentleman. 
(Music Piano till end of Act). 

Eva. You are going away, cousin ? 

Art. Yes ; to London. 

Doc " ) 

Mrss Mtr. [ (Together). To London ! 
Bob. ) 

\_Picture. Ferne lowing to take his leave. Arthur in- 
dignant. Bunntthorne and Doctor sympathetic. 
Eva looking at Ferne. Bob contemptuous. Miss 
Myrnie watching. 



BUNNYTHOBNE. 



END OF ACT I. 



ACT II. 



Scene I. — The Tapestry Chamber in the Abbey. Large Window, 
c. Balcony and staircase seen behind it — covered with snow. 
Boors e. and L, 2 E. Scene enclosed. Large old-fashioned 
fire-place E, 1 E. (See Biagram.) Large fire burning. The 
stage furnished somewhat sparely. Old-fashioned tapestry on 
walls. Table and invalid chair near fire-place. Sofa l. 



1ALC0NT OUTSIDE. 

window— Pract. 





Enter Doctor from door r. (Eva's room), meeting 
Wykeham, on whose arm Lord Mompesson, in dress- 
ing gown, is leaning, tuho enters l. d. 

Lord M. Gi-ood morning, Doctor : good morning. How is 
our invalid ? 

Doc. Much the same. 

Lord M. Poor child ! poor child ! I miss her very much. 
She was so kind and thoughtful for me— so kind and thought- 
ful — so — so — Wykeham takes care of me now — don't you, 
Wykeham ? 

Wyk. Yes, my lord. 

Lord M. But you're too old ; ain't you, Wykeham — too 
old? 

Wyk. Yes, my lord. 

Lord M. So am I. In fact, we're both too old — ain't we, 
Wykeham ? 

Wye. Yes, my lord. 

Lord M. Do you think we shall have Arthur back to-day ? 
(To Doctor.) 

Doc. I think so. 

Lord M. Dear ! dear ! dear ! And he thought to be only 
away a week, and he has been more than two months — 
such a long time — when one is old. Take me back to my 
room, Wykeham. Let me know if Arthur comes back. 

Doc. Of course. 

Lord M. My love to Eva. Is she asleep ? 

Doc. Asleep ? yes. 

Lord M. Ay, ay ! A good thing sleep. Good morning. 
Now, Wykeham. 

[Lord M. and Wykeham totter off l. d. 

Doc. Asleep ! ah ! (Sighing.) If she only could sleep. 

Enter Eva r. d. She looks very ill, and half delirious. 
Ditring the scene she excites herself so as to exhibit 
all the symptoms of delirious fever; she coughs at 



Doc. Have you got up, dear ? 

Eva. Yes ; don't scold me ; I was so tired of the sick room. 
Doc. (With great sijm-pathy, all his rough manner gone, and 
the fine delicate nature rising to the surface.) Feel better ? 
Eva. (Langividly .) Just the same. 
Doc. And your head ? 



28 

Eva. Heavy. And my bones all ache. 

Doc. Sit down by the fire. (Arranging pillows and arm- 
chair for her.) 

Eva. I'm always cold. My long illness began just in this 
way — but this time it will not last long. 

Doc Chut, chnt ! my dear. Come, you're more comfort- 
able there. 

Eva. I should like to be near the window. 

Doc. The window is too far from the fire. 

Eva. But I like to see 

Doc. There's nothing to see, my pet, but the snow that has 
fallen during the night. 

Eva. I like to see the snow — the fantastic forms it seems to 
carve upon the trees — as if the whole world were made of 
white coral; or as if some good person were dead, and a 
shroud of ice had fallen upon the earth. Let me go to the 
window? (Rising.) 

Doc. No, no ; there is too much draught. It's a crazy old 
casement, and you mustn't catch cold. The slightest chill — 
an open door — or a current of air upon you in your state 

Eva. And I should die ? 

Doc. (Bothered.) Die ! No, my love : nobody dies ! it's 
out of date. 

Eva. But it might kill me ! 

Doc. Well, it might, if it were fatal. If you must move, 
walk about with me — so — within range of the fire. (She 
rises, takes his arm, and they walk to and fro.) 

Eva. Tell me, is it true that there are people in the world 
who believe, that when we die, all is finished — all is over — 
and that we do not meet those we love again in a better, 
higher sphere ? 

Doc. I — I believe that there are such people. The world is 
full of varieties. 

Eva. (Growing delirious.) But how is it possible they can be- 
lieve it ? How can they believe it — at night — when the sky 
is full of stars ? What are the stars but beacon-fires of 
immortality ? lamps, lighting us on the heavenly road to future 
and Eternal Life ? Doctor, did you ever, on a bright night, 
see a star — fall ? 

Doc. Yes, often. I've seen many things fall at night. 

Eva. And did you not think as you watched it out on 

its bright path, through its host of shining sisters, did you not 

think that you were that star — falling, falling, falling through 

tremendous, space — and have you not felt here, at your 



heart, a sense of sublime emotion — a sort of wonder and awe, 
bnt yet not fear ? 

Doc. No ; I never felt anything of the sort. We doctors, 
you know, have to deal with material ailments — broken collar- 
bones, and not erratic nebulae. 

Eva. I saw my mother die ! When I die I shall meet 
her again ! I shall cleave through the air and see the white 
frosty earth below me as I aspire to a bright heaven and her 
warm heart. She, above, cannot forget her poor child who, 
even in her earthly clay, remembers her. (Coughs.) 

Doc. My child, you're feverish, go back to your room 
(seating her in arm-chair) . Your head is hot, and 

Eva. Yes, I feel I am very ill, but I think that when the 
poor body is weak, the mind is clearer. (Suddenly.) Doctor, 
why do you never go to church ? 

Doc. (Staggered.) Eh? 

Eva. Why do you never go to church ? 

Doc. Me — a — a man — at my time of life. 

Eva. (Sloivly.) If I were to die 

Doc. Eva! 

Eva. If it were Heaven's will, and I should die, you would 
pray for me, would you not ? 

Doc. I — I — I — you really must go to bed, my child. 

Eva. God bless you for all your goodness to me. 

Doc. (Aivfulhj affected.) My love ! [Music, piano. 

Eva. (After a pause, taking Doctor's hand.) They sent him 
away on my account ; did they not ? 

Doc. Him? Who? 

Eva. John — Feme. You remember, I told you. They 
sent him away ; Miss Myrnie told me so ; because he was in 
love with me, and they did not think him good enough to be 
my husband. 

Doc. Miss Myrnie told you so, did she ? 

Eva. Yes. 

Doc. (Aside.) The damned old , I'll give her some physic 

that will make her so ill. {To her, soothingly.) My dear, Miss 
Myrnie told you a lie. So far from sending him away, your 
cousin Arthur likes him very much, and wishes him to marry 
you. 

Eva. (Overjoyed.) What? 

Doc. Miss Myrnie is a mischief-making old . With 

your permission, I will think the rest in Latin. Your cousin 
Arthur has gone to London 

Eva. (Eagerly.) To inquire about him ? 



30 

Doc. Yes ; yes. {Aside.') What an infernal liar I am ; 
but it's a pious fraud. {To her.) And Avhen he conies back 

Eva. He will be my husband ? 

Doc. Yes. {She sinks into chair. A pause.) 

Eva. {After a deep sigh of relief.) Doctor, I think I'll go 
back to my room. I can sleep now. 

Doc. Do, dear, do. {She takes his arm.) 

Eva. Will he come soon to see me ? 

Doc. I — I think so ; but how do I know ? I'm not in his 
secrets. 

Eva. {As they are nearing door R. H.) It's two months since 
I saw him ; two months and three days. 

Doc. Yes, dear, so it is. I make it out two be just two 
months and three days. 

Eva. {At door.) Good night. 

Doc. You mean good morning. 

Eva. I shall sleep well, I'm sure I shall. {Going, returns.) 
If he comes while I'm asleep, you'll rouse me, will you not ? 

Doc. I'll come and rouse you up that instant. 

Eva. Do. Oh ! Doctor, why did you not tell me this good 
news before. I am so happy. [Exit Eva. Door R. 

Doc. {His handkerchief to his eyes.) Poor child ! poor 
child ! 

Enter Bunnythorne, all over snow, l. d. Skates in his hand. 

Doc. {Angrily and brusquely.) What the devil do you come 
in like that for ? Don't you know that I've got an invalid 
there ? (Bunnythorne is writhing in pain.) What are you 
doing ? 

Bun. I'm trying to get my back-bone straight again. I've 
been skating on the lake. 

Doc. More fool you — at your time of life. 

Bun. And I tumbled down. 

Doc. Of course — and hurt yourself ? 

Bun. Yes. 

Doc. Where ? 

Bun. Where I fell — on my back. 

Doc. Eall on your head next time, it won't hurt you 
there. 

Bun. Arthur Mompesson's come back from London. 

Doc. No! When? 

Bun. This moment. Here he is. 



31 

Enter Arthur, l. d., followed hy Miss Myrnie. Arthur 
is dressed in a modem morning suit, tum-doivn 
collar, modem cravat, 8fc, Ms whole manner 
changed, he seems younger and brighter, and ra- 
diant with high spirits. 

Art. Ah, Doctor, how d'ye do ? Where is my father ? 
Where is Eva ? 

Doc. Not yet up. 

Art. Still asleep. (Loohing at watch) and past ten. The 
lazy creatures. 

Doc. (With his watch. Bun. and Miss M. take out their 
watches, big ones.) Past ten ! Why it's not half-past nine. 

Art. Ton're all slow here — behind time. Its past ten by 
the Horse Guards. 

Bun. The Horse Guards at Stickton-le-Clay ? 

Art. No ; the Horse Guards in London. 

Miss M. -\ 

Doc. > (With contempt.) Oh, London ! 

Bun. ) 

Bun. (Dogmatically.) Our time is Stickton-le-Clay time ; 
that's good enough for us. 

Art. Well, Doctor, congratulate me, I've won. 

Doc. Won ! 

Art. Yes ; I went to the Commons — the Lords — I saw 
many old friends — I argued — I fought — and conquered — the 
line is to branch off at Broxborough. Wainthorpe is to be left 
to the right, and the railway line does not come here. 

Miss M. (Rising and shaking hands with him.) Bless you ! 

Doc. 

Bun. 

Art. (Loohing round with rapture.) These dear old walls ; 
I have preserved them ! They will still stand — a glorious 
relic of past ages — an architectural beacon to the future. 
Progress, with its hot oil and steam vulgarity, shall not reach 
us here. 

Doc. )-d , 

Bun. | Bravo! 

Arthur standing with his bach to the fire, R. H., the others seated. 

Miss M. 
m Dr. B. 

h Buw. 

< 



32 

Art. But let us be just even to our enemies ; the railway is 
very comfortable. 

Doc. The railway ? {Astonished.) 

Bun. Did you travel by railway ? {Disgusted.) 

Miss M. Good gracious ! {Horrified.) 

Art. As far as Stapleton. {All aghast.) Why not ? It was 
the nearest and the quickest. 

Miss M. Tou travelled 

Bun. By rail? {A pause.) 

Art. Yes, by rail ; nice carriage — padded — tins full of hot 
water for your feet — very comfortable. When you stop at a sta- 
tion, man shouts out, Staple — ton, Staple — ton, bell, whistle, off 
you go — very nice indeed. {They all sigh.) I didn't care 
much for the coach — the old "Perseverance" — afterwards. 
Not pleasant inside. Commercial man asleep on my shoulder, 
a good snorer ; woman opposite with baby with whom travel- 
ling disagreed. Damp, bad-smelling straw, the roads awful. 
Had to get out and walk up the hills. Cold, wet feet — after 
the comfortable first-class carriage. Horrible ! (A pause. 
Doctor, Bunnythorne, and Miss Mtrnie exchange glances.) 

Bun. Where did you get those clothes ? 

Art. Oh ! a tailor in Bond Street. I was so shabby. I 
ordered them and he sent them to Long's. 

Bun. I never saw such an object in all my life. Why not 
wear moustaches ? 

Doc. And an eye-glass ? . 

Miss M. Or smoke a cigar ? 

Art. Ah ! You're prejudiced ! I've brought presents for all 
of you — and as for Eva. I've ordered fresh furniture for this 
room. 

Miss M. Fresh furniture ? 

Art. Yes ; I mean to make it into a boudoir. Poor child ! 
after the luxury of London, to be condemned to pass her days 
among these mouldy old chairs and tables. They're only fit 
for an outhouse. 

Bun. And what are we fit for ? An outhouse too ? 

Art. My dear friends, my trip to London has made me twenty 
years younger. We'll make the old Abbey as gay as any place 
in the country. I mean to give a ball in honour of my victory 
over the railway. 

Miss. M. ) 

Doc. \ A ball! 

Bun. ] 

Bun. Do you expect me to dance ? 



33 

Miss M. Or me ? 

Art. Why not ? 

Miss M. Is the ball too to be in honour of Eva ? 

Art. Yes. 

Miss M. Why not marry her ? 

Art. Why not ? 

Miss M. (Rising.) Balls, cousin Arthur, are wicked things 
— all sin and shoulders. If a ball is given in the Abbey I 
shall quit the place for ever. 

-p. ' I (Together.) Hurray ! (Congratulating each other.) 

Miss M. (Searing them, and more exasperated.) I dare say 
you'll be very glad. 

Bun. We shall, indeed. 

Miss M. I will not countenance such scandals with my 
presence. (Drops her spectacles.) Cousin Arthur, the place 
of future punishment is paved with 

Doc. With good intentions. 

Miss M. No, sir ! with bare necks and shoulders, with false 
hair and paint, and other Babylonian abominations. Arthur, 
you went out from the country pure and unsullied. You have 
returned reeking with smoke, railways, impiety, and London. 
In time you will have ceased to be a single country gentleman, 
and sink into a married cockney ! \_8he goes off l. d. 

Bun. (After a pause of astonishment, seeing her spectacles on 
the carpet.) She's left her green spectacles. (Crushes them 
with his foot, then picking up the pieces.) Here, Miss Myrnie, 
you've dropped your spectacles. [Exit Bun. l. d. 

Art. Upon my word, if Miss Myrnie were not 

Doc. Never mind the old woman — she's jealous. 

Art. Jealous ! 

Doc. You said you'd ordered fresh furniture for Eva, and — 

Art. Eva — yes- — (Looking at ivatch.) Not up yet — lazy — 
I'll knock at her door. (Going to door R. Doctor stops him.) 

Doc. No. 

Art. Eh ? Why uot ? (Seeing the serious expression of 
Doctor's face,) Is she ill? (Doctor nods.) Very ill? Why 
did you not tell me ? Why did you not write ? 

Doc. What use ? She fell ill two days after you left, and 
she has got worse and worse. 

Art. Is it a return of — a relapse. (Doctor nods. Arthur 
sinks into chair.) But what cause ? 

Doc. What cause ? (Putting both hands in his pockets and 
looking Arthur full in the face.) Love ! 



34 

Art. Love ! {Rising, astonished.) 

Doc. Tes ; for that young man — Feme — the engineer. 

Art. Impossible ! He is not in love with her. 

Doc. No ; he is not in love with her, but she is in love with 
him. 

Art. How do you know ? 

Doc. I heard her name him when she was delirious. (Arthur 
resumes Ms seat.) I questioned her, and she confessed it. She 
fell in love with him more than a year ago — when they were 
both in London. See here — {Producing letter), from the physi- 
cian who attended her. {Head.) 

Art. {Beading.) " If the fever returns in its full force, noth- 
ing can save her." {Rising.) But it shall not return. You 
are here. Tou can battle with the disease. You can save 
her ! 

Doc. Save her ! How ? Give me a body in pain, and I 
can try. Show me a diseased organ, and I know what I'm 
about. I can treat. I can reduce. I have something material 
to fight with. But a mind in trouble — a spirit diseased — 
a soul in agony — how can I treat that ? I can't give her a 
dose of resignation or two tablespoonfuls of hope. I can't cure 
a love-sick girl, dying of love. 

Art. But no girl ever died of love. You've told me so a 
thousand times. 

Doc. And I was right. They don't die of love, but love 
brings on fever, and they die of that. 

Enter Bunnythorne hastily, L. d. 

Doc. {Angrily.) How often am I to tell you to come in 
quietly. 

Bun. {Angrily.) I shall come in as I like. 

Doc. {Pointing to door R.) What, when 

Bun. {Softly.) Oh, I forgot. But I'm annoyed ! That 
young fellow — that Stokineer — Engineer — what is it ? 

Art. Ferae ? 

Bun. Yes, Feme — is downstairs in the drawing-room, and 
wants to see you. I told Wykeham to send him away. 

Doc. You did ? 

Bun. Yes. 

Doc. You fool! 

Bun. {Indignant.) Doctor Brown ! 

Doc. Cro down again — ask him to take a glass of sherry ; 
be attentive, polite, and bring him upstairs here in ten 
minutes. 



35 

Art" Here1 rS ? } Both astonished ' 

Bun. But I don't understand 

Doc. Of course you don't. I don't expect that of you. 
(Forcing him off.) Now go. 

Bun. (As he goes.) Ask that stokineer fellow 

Doc. Yes. 

BuNNYTHORNE is forced off, L. D. 

Art. I don't understand 

Doc. Eva must see him. Miss Myrnie told her that Ferae 
was ordered from the house on her account, because you and 
your father would not consent to the match. His presence 
will contradict the old serpent. 

Art. But she must not believe 

Doc. Let her believe what she likes, so long as I can but 
save her. 

Art. But it will be a lie to 

Doc. Yes, it will be a lie. Consider the lie physic, and 
swallow it with or without a wry face — as you please ; but 
swallow it. 

Art. But to-morrow we shall be forced to undeceive her. 

Doc. Let us save her for to-day. We can think of some- 
thing else to-morrow. 

Art. But I will not consent 

Doc. You must !— you shall ! Damn it, sir ! Who com- 
mands by the sick-bed side — you or me ? Give me the chance 
of saving her. Don't tie my hands. I'll snatch her from 
death if I can. 

Art. Death! (Terrified.) 

Doc. Yes. Send this young man away, and I'll not answer 
for her life eigkt-and-forty hours. 

Art. (Despairingly.) Let him come ! Let him come ! Only 
save her, and I'll turn radical ! (Shaking hands with Doctor.) 

Doc. Hush! (Going to door R.) I hear her moving — place 
the sofa here. (Arthur moves sofa near fire. Eva opens door R. 
Arthur offers her his arm.) 

Art. My poor girl. I'm so sorry to see you ill again. 

Eva. I'm so glad to see you back. (Coughs. They place her 
on sofa.) 

Doc. Keep yourself well wrapped up — the slightest cold— 
the smallest draught — and the consequences might be serious. 

Eva. What a long time you've been away. 



3(5 

Doc. Arthur has been busy. (Motioning to Arthur.) He has 
just been bothering me about a matter, which I fear you 
have hardly strength enough to talk of. 

Eva. (Trembling.) About 

Doc. Yes — about that — about Mr. Feme. (During the Act, 
Eva coughs at frequent intervals.) 




Eva. (Trembling.') Did you see him in London ? 

Doc. Yes ; (Looking at Arthur.) You saw him in London ? 

Art. (Embarrassed.) Oh, yes. 

Eva. Then you're not — your're not — angry — with him ? 

Doctor and Arthur are at back of sofa, so that Eva cannot 
see their by-play. The red light of fire on Eva's face. 

Doc. Angry with him — ha, ha ! What for ? (Aside to 
Arthur.) Say what for ? 

Art. (Mechanically.) What for ? 

Eva. For — for — Then Miss Myrnie was mistaken — and you 
did not 

Doc. No, you didn't, did you ? (Aside to Arthur.) Say you 
didn't ! I'm not going to tell all the lies — you tell your 
share ! 

Art. Did not what ? (To Eva.) 

Eva. You did not — decline his offer. 

Doc. I should think not ! (To Arthur.) Say no ! 

Art. (Embarrassed.) ~No ! 

Eva. Then you consent ? (She is almost fainting. Doctor 
applies eau-de-Cologne to her forehead.) 

Art. (Taking Doctor up stage.) What are you about ? 
She believes that I consent to her marrying this fellow ! 

Doc. All the better. 

Art. How can I undeceive her ? 

Doc. Don't undeceive her ' 

Art. You've done it, Doctor ! You've done it ! 

Eva. (Recovering). What are you saying ? 

Doc. I was saying that Feme is such a fine young fellow — 
make such a capital husband. He'll be here directly ! 



Eva. (Excited.) Directly ! — When ? — To-morrow ? 

Doc. When, Arthur ? To-morrow ; or, perhaps, sooner. 

Eva. (Sitting up on sofa.) Hush! I hear his step ! There 
are two people ascending the stairs ; he is one of them. He 
is here ! (Sinks on sofa.) 

Enter Bunnythorne and Feenb l. d. 

Bun. (Aloud.) Here's Mr. Feme. (To Doctor.) Now 
you've got him — what do you want with him ? 

Art. (Going to Ferne and shaking hands with him with 
feigned cordiality.) My dear Mr. Feme — delighted to see you 
— delighted. 

Doc. Delighted ! (Shaking hands.) Delighted ! 

Bun. (To Ferne.) Eh ! delighted ? Why this is that 
fellow who was going to 

Art. 1 (To Bun.) Do hold your tongue ! 

Doc. J Keep quiet, can't you ? [Bun. bothered. 

Fer. (Surprised at the warmth of his reception ) I called 
partly to congratulate you on your success before the com- 
mittee. 

Doc. (Interrupting him.) And to inquire after Eva. 

Fee. Eva! 

All this takes place near L. h. Door up stage. Eva, who is on 
sofa, not hearing it. 

Bun. Eva ! (To Doctor and Arthur.) But I thought you 
didn't like the notion of 

^ } (Together.) (^ hold 7°™ ton jf f . , . , 

JJoc. J v J ' i^Silence, you dreadful old magpie, snence. 

Bun. (Aside.) They've both gone off their heads. London 
has sent one mad ; and living among physic has driven the 
other lunatic. 

Art. (Aside to Ferne.) For Heaven's sake, don't contradict 
a word we say. 

Doc. (Aside to Ferne.) We'll explain to you by-and-by. 
(Ferne astonished.) 

Art. (Leading Ferne to sofa.) She is very ill — very ill in- 
deed. 

Fer. I am very sorry, Miss Summers, to find you so suffer- 
ing. So ill. 



38 

Eva. I have been ill, but I am better now. 
Bun. (Following Doctor and Arthur. To them, aside) Now 
perhaps you'll tell me. 

Doc. "1 Do keep quiet. "j ^ ., 

Art. J By-and-by, by-and-by. J & 

Eva. And did you come down all the way here to see 
me? 

Ferne. No. I came to see 

Doc. Yes ; to see you, dear, of course — and Arthur — and all 
of us. (Aside to Bunnythorne). Say as I do— make much of 
him. 

Bun. (Mechanically crossing to Ferne, and shaking hands 
with him, quite bothered). Yes, all of us — me particularly — 
always glad to see my dear friend, what's your name? Come 
often, and bring your steam-engine — I mean 

Eva. (To Ferne.) When you saw my cousin in London, he 
didn't know I was ill ? 

Fer. (Mystified,.) When I saw 

Art. (Interrupting.) Yes, when we met in London. Ihey 
never wrote and told me. (Aside to Ferne.) For heaven's 
sake don't betray us. 

Doc. (Aside to Ferne.) It is life or death. 

Art. We'll explain some other time. 

Fer. (To Bunntthorne). Eh? 

Bun. (With importance). Yes, I'll explain some other 
time, (aside) when I know what I've got to explain. (Aloud). 
By the way, lunch is ready — so if you, my dear friend, will 
lunch with us, I'm sure Mr. Mompesson will be — ■ — ■ 

Art. Delighted — yes, delighted. 

Eva. No, you can lunch without him. He will stay with 
me. You're not hungry, are you ? No ; he is not hungry. 
Besides, I want to talk to him alone. 

Bun. (Astonished.)'] -&, ~) m ,, 

Fer. (Astonished.)}^' \ To ^ tUr - 

Doc. Yes. We'll go to lunch, and 

Art. (Aside to him.) Leave them together ? 

Doc. What is there to fear ? He doesn't love her ! 

Art. No — but 

Doc. Do you want to murder her ? 

Art. No, no. There — there (to them) — I shan't be long. 

Eva. Don't hurry on our account. 

Art. (To Doctor.) We're done, doctor, we're decidedly 
done. [Exit Arthur, l. d 



39 

Bon. (To Doctor.) Now tell me why 

Doc. Don't bother now — only make much of him. 

[Exit Doctor, l. d. 

Bun. (Bothered.) All right. (Going to Ferne and shaking 
hands mechanically. Sorry you don't lunch with us, dear 

Mr. what's your name — but you must drop in some 

other time — drop in often — in a friendly way — devilish glad — 
(goes of talking to himself, l.d.) [Ferne astonished. 

Fer. What can they mean. 

Eva. (Smiling.) Well, won't you come and sit beside 
me. 

Fer. With pleasure. (Sits on sofa. Eva near fire. Ferne 
l. of her.) 

Eva. Oh ! I am so glad to see you ! 

Fer. (Embarrassed.) I, too, am delighted to have the 
opportunity. (Formally.) 

Eva. And they never told you how ill I was — and I might 
have died 

Fer. Died ! Oh, Eva. How can you talk in that way. 

Eva. You would have mourned me — would you not ? 
(Ferne embarrassed.) But tell me — 'after you had seen cousin 
Arthur in London — why did you not write to me ? 

Fer. Write to you ? 

Eva. Yes ; you knew the address ! 

Fer. (Still more puzzled.) Oh, yes ; I knew the address. 

Eva. Well, then. Why not send me word of the good news 
immediately ? 

Fer. I— I hardly felt— justified. 

Eva. Why not ? There was no need of any persuasion after 
cousin Arthur had given his consent. 

Fer. Given his consent ? 

Eva. Yes. 

Fer. To— to— what? 

Eva. (Blushing.) To — you know very well — why do you 
want to make me say it ? 

Fer. Of course I know very well — but I should like to hear 
you say it, because then I might have an idea of what it 
was. 

Eva. What a tyrant you are ! 

Fer. Do say it, Eva. (Repeating.) Arthur Mompesson has 
given his consent 

Eva. To our — correspondence ? 

Fer. Correspondence ! 



40 

Eva. Had given his consent — to our loving each other. 
There ! now are you satisfied ? 

Fer. (Aside.) Good heavens ! Does she love me ? 

Eva. So you could have written. Surely a man has the 
privilege of writing to his future wife. 

Fee. Wife ? Then have they told you — ■ — 

Eva. The Doctor told me everything ; so it is no use your 
trying to conceal it. (Joyously — then sadly.) I know why you 
and the others have tried to keep it from me. 

Fer. Why? 

Eva. Because I was so ill, they feared the emotion — the ex- 
citement of the news might kill me. 

Fer. (Aside.) I understand. 

Eva. But instead of increasing my malady it has improved 
my health. I feel stronger ; I can breathe more easily. I 
can weep more freely. (She weeps.) Don't be frightened, 
these tears do me good. They are cool, refreshing tears — 
not like the hot scalding drops that burnt me yesterday. 

During this scene the shy seen through the window oe- 
comes darker as if before a storm. At the same 
time the gloiv of the fire increases in colour on the 
faces of Eva and Ferne. 

Fer. But, Eva, if — if events should not have turned out so 
happily ; that is, if I had not loved you, or if I had only loved 
you with the affection of a brother 

Eva. Oh ! I shouldn't have liked that ; that would not have 
been enough. 

Fer. Or, if — mind I say if — if I had loved another. 

Eva. (Shaking her head confidently.) Impossible! 

Fer. Impossible ! Why ? 

Eva. I loved you so much, you could not help loving me in 
return. These things are fostered by fate — or, no ! I should 
not say fate, for mutual love is the work of Heaven. 

Fer. Heaven ! (He rises and tvalksfrom sofa to L. h. Aside.) 
I can hardly believe my senses. {Returning to sofa and bending 
over her.) And my love makes you happy, Eva ? 

Eva. Happy ? Oh, infinitely ! 

Fer. (With fervour, taking her hand.) And I, too, dearest 
Eva, am happy. 

Eva. Now sit down here, and tell me one thing. (Feene 
sits by her side again.) Candidly, now — quite candidly. 

Fer. Tell you what ? (This scene to be played sloidy.) 



41 

Eva. When did you first discover — that is, when did your 
heart first tell you that you loved me ? 

Fer. When? 

Eva. Yes. When ? (A pause.) Ah ! you can't remember. 
That's like men. Now, I'll tell you when I loved you for the 
first time. (With child-like confidence.) It was on the twenty- 
eighth of September — on a Sunday. You called at the 
Dobbs's, and after dinner you walked out with me in the 
garden. It was the first time I had left the house since my 
illness. I was still in mourning, and you talked to me, and 
I fell in love with you from that moment. 

Fer. (With fervour.) Yes — yes, I remember. 

Eva. You remember what you said. 

Fer. No, not exactly. (Trying to remember.) 

Eva. I remember every word, because, you know, I was 
obliged to guess that you were in love with me. 

Fer. Why? 

Eva. Because you never told me. 

Fer. Because I was a fool — absorbed in my idiotic busi- 
ness, and disregardful of the good, kind, warm, gentle heart 
that beat for me. I remember now your sweet looks, your 
pious resignation, your soft voice, and thousand charms. I 
observed them then, though not with the rapture I recall 
them now. 

Eva. (Entranced.) Go on — go on. I love to hear you talk 
in this way. It is the first time your heart has declared its 
feeling to me. 

Fer. (His emotion mastering him.) I remember all. I am 
again walking by your side in that glorious sunshine. Again 
I see your pale face looking into mine — I see your black dress 
— I feel your thin white hand upon my arm — I hear your voice 
— that voice that death had so nearly silenced for ever, but 
which returned to earth laden with music as of another sphere. 
I recall all — and the sunstroke that vivified my heart as your 
dear head rested there a moment — and the tears dimmed your 
eyes in memory of your mother. Eva, I loved you then, 
though I did not know it. I love you now, that you can be 
mine — my own, my partner through life — my wife for ever. 

During this speech Eva has risen and stood by the side 
of Ferne as his speech reaches its climax, over- 
powered with emotion she falls unconscious on the 
sofa, at the same moment Arthur enters l. d. 



42 

Art. (Angrily.) And I thought you were a man of honour. 

Fer. (Not seeing that Eva has fainted.) In what have I 
forfeited that title ? 

Art. In what? (Seeing Eva unconscious.) She has fainted. 
(To Ferne) Leave this house this instant. 

Ferne. Leave this house ! Who brought me into it, and 
welcomed me, and took me by the hand, and led me to hear 
her confession of love (his tone rising with his words), and to 
make my avowal of love to her ? 

Art. (Violently.) I order you to quit this house ! 

Fer. (Placing his finger on his lip to indicate that Eva might 
hear them) (scornfully) — I obey your order ; but I will return 
— return, despite of you, or all the world — to take away the 
bride I love — the wife who loves me — the woman to whom 
you have betrothed me ! [Exit Ferne, l. d. 

Art. Curses on the time I first saw you ! — and oh ! my 
punishment for taking the advice that brought him to her side ! 
Eva ! — still unconscious ! 

{Going to hell-rope, sees Miss Myrnie, who enters l.d. 

Miss M. What is the matter ? 

Art. Wait here with Eva, while I fetch the doctor. (Gross- 
ing to L. D.) 

Miss M. (Grossing to sofa.) He's not in the dining-room ! 

Art. (As he goes off L. D.) I'll find him. 

Miss M. (Seating herself by Eva's side.) Poor child ! What 
a state they've put her into ! 

Eva. (Recovering.) Ah ! How bright my future ! How 
happy I feel ! (Seeing Miss Myrnie.) Miss Myrnie, where is he ? 
He was here just now ! 

Miss M. Do you mean Mr. Ferne ? 

Eva. Yes. (The sky becomes darker outside window.) 

Miss M. He's gone ! 

Eva. Gone ! 

Miss M. Yes ; just this moment left the Abbey. 

Eva. You are deceiving me, madam — deceiving me as you 
did before, when you told me that cousin Arthur would not 
permit our union. 

Miss M. (Enraged.) I deceive you, my child! It is 
they who are deceiving you ; I heard them during lunch. 
Mr. Feme's love for you is all a pretence. 

Eva. What? 

Miss M. A plan — a scheme got up between them to comfort 
you because you are ill, and as soon as you are better they 



43 

will undeceive you. My poor child, I speak the truth ; I never 
speak anything but truth. 

Eva. His love a pretence — a plan ! 

Miss M. Yes, my poor child; they're treating you as if you 
were a baby, and I can't bear to see it, my sense of truth re- 
volts at it ; so I was resolved to tell you of it, that you might 
assert your sex's dignity. 

Eva. {Half convinced.') And yet but now he told me that — 
he — loved me. 

Miss M. He said that, my dear — out of pity for you. 

Eva. {Stricken.) Pity! 

Miss M. Yes, dear ; the wretches to deceive you ! — but I've 
unmasked them, and now you know the truth — the beautiful, 
the sublime, the glorious, the eternal truth ! 

Eva. {After a pause.) Please leave me, I wish to be alone. 

Miss. M. {Rising.) Yes, dear ; thank goodness I have done 
my duty. {As she goes.) To dare to insinuate that I could 
tell a lie. No ! It's the men ! Men are all liars ! All ! They 
lie to deceive us, but they have never deceived me, and they 
never shall ! never ! never ! never ! never ! 

[Exit Miss M. l. d. 

The snow begins to fall outside window, at first slightly, 
then more thickly towards end of act. 

Eva. {After a pause.) Pity! His pity ! and all that he said 
as he sat here by my side. I remember. " If I bad not 
loved you ! " and, " If I had only loved you with the affection 
of a brother ! " and " If I had loved another ! " {Rising from 
sofa.) I see it all. He does not love me, and his bright words 
were lies. Oh ! I am accursed ! cursed like my poor dead 
mother ! Why did I come here to this house from which she 
was banished — where I have been deceived ? {Coughs.) Oh ! 
air ! air ! {Approaches ivindoiv.) I cannot breathe ! No ! {Re- 
turning.) I must not. The cold will kill me ! {Raising her 
head.) Well, why not ? Life is tasteless ! Let me die ! 

Music — piano till end of act. She opens window and 
steps out into balcony amid the thick falling snow. 
Noise of wind heard as the casement is opened. 

Eva throivs off the wrappings from her neck and shoul- 
ders so that she stands exposed to the snow in her 
petticoat body. She coughs frequently and places 
her hands on Iter chest. 



44 

Ferne appears on balcony, and as she faints catches 
her, and brings her into the room again. At the 
same moment Arthur and the Doctor enter L. D. 
Miss M. stands in l. door doorway. The Doctor 
rushes to window and closes it. Picture. 



Doctor at Window. 
Feenk bending over her. Aethue. 

Eva on Floor. 



% 
\ 



Drop, Quickly. 



end of act II. 



X 



ACT III. 

Scene I. — The same as Act 2. Night. Stage dark. On table, 
near fire, bottle and tumblers, and sugar. Small copper kettle 
on fire. 

Enter Bunnythorne, in dressing-gown and night-cap. He 
carries a lighted bed-candle in his hand. He is 
slightly intoxicated. Clock strikes five. 

Bun. Five ! and that boy isn't home yet. I've been to his 
room, and there's his bed as smooth as a — brickbat. Oh, that 
boy ! When I was a boy, what a charming boy I was ! — inno- 
cent, ingenuous, good-tempered, brave, handsome, sober. I've 
taken too much brandy ! The Doctor asked me to sit up in 
case he might want me, as Arthur is knocked up, and Miss 
Myrnie is in the dumps ; and so I — brought the brandy — to 
rouse me — just to pass the time pleasantly- — and then I fell 
asleep ; and I suppose that in my sleep I — {Growing maudlin 
sentimental.) Poor child ! poor child ! (Drinking neat brandy.) 
Oh, that boy ! (He puts candle on table near sofa. The 
candlestick falls, and the light is extinguished. Stage dark.) 
Confound it ! In my time these sort of things never hap- 
pened; but now-a-days — (With disgust) — Augh ! (He feels 
for candle ; finds it ; contemplates it moodily.) Oh, that boy! 
(Places candle in stick, and then places the candlestick on table, 
then feeling on floor.) Luckily the lucifers were in the — ah ! 
(Finds lucifers on floor. During the following speech he strikes 
lucifers on box. They do not ignite. Irritably.) Clever ! 
(Throwing lucifers away.) Clever! clever! That's modern 
science ! Only a penny a-box ! But they don't light ! 
(Throwing lucifers away.) Go it ! (Fondly.) And when I 
remember in my time how pleasant it used to be with the 
dear old flint-and-steel and tinder-box, and those nice wooden 
matches, with the brimstone at the top- — and you used to hit 
the steel on the flint, like a harmonious blacksmith — and after 



46 

the fifteenth or sixteenth stroke the spark would fall upon the 
tinder, and then the flames would spread about — " parson and 
clerk " we called 'em, in my innocent childhood — and then 
the match used to light — and ah ! (Sighing.) The good old 
days! the good old clays ! (A lucifer lights.) Ah ! at last ! 
(He lights candle. Stage light. Crossing stage to L. door.) I won- 
der where the Doctor is ! I'll go and see. (As he reaches L. 
door, enter Bob. The draught from the door extinguishes the 
light. Stage dark again.) 

Bun. Oh, those boys ! (Angrily.) Why did you open the 
door when you came in ? 

Bob. How could I come in without opening it ? 

(Bob's boots and clothes give evidence that he has been 
walking in the snow. He is shivering with cold. 
He is partially intoxicated. To just the same extent 
as Bunnythorne. His great coat and general ap- 
pearance should resemble Bunnythorne's in his 
dressing-goion. 

Bun. What d'ye mean by coming in at this time of night ? 
— I mean morning ? 

Bob. I've been sitting up at the "Arms." 

Bun. (With disgust.) The " Arms ! " — a tavern ? When I 
was a young man there were no taverns, and those there were 
closed early. 

Bob. We were talking litera-too. 

Bun. Talking what? 

Bob. Litera4wre. (With an effort.) 

Bun. (Aside.) The boy's drunk — drunk as a fidd-1-l-l-er ! 

Bob. ( Aside.) The guv'nor's tight — tight as a drum. 

Both assume an air of excessive sobriety and dignity. 
Bun. goes to sofa near fire. Bob follows him. As 
they cross, their resemblance to each other must be 
carried out by the actors' gestures and manners 
being arranged so as to be identical. Whatever 
action is used by Bun. is also used inadvertently and 
unconsciously by Bob. 

Bun. Why did you not go up to your room ? 

Bob. I wanted to inquire after poor cousin Eva ! How is 
she? 

Bun. I don't know — no better- — just the same. 



Bob. ('Spouting*) 

" She was doomed ere we were wedded, ar.d I never saw her more. 
Flame the lightnings, bray the thunders, bid the smoky torrents pout ! 
Bid the smoky torrents pour- " 

Oh ! smoky torrents — fine image isn't it ? 

Bun. (Not heeding Mm.) Nothing to what it iised to be in 
my time. 

Bob. Eh? 

Bun. What's fine ? 

Bob. My poetry — my " Thoughts in a Crater !" 

Bun. Thoughts in a coal-hole ! I hate poetry — I consider it 
nngentlemanlike. There never used to be any poetry in my 
time. 

Bob. (Spouting.) " Flame the lightnings " 

Bun. Flame the devil ! Where are the lucifers ? On the 
table somewhere — find'em. (He finds them as he is sjjeaking^ 
and hands them to Bob.) Here's the box — take it, can't you ? 
(As Bunnythorne holds box, Bob takes brandy bottle, helps 
himself, and drinks.) 

Bun. Got it? 

Bob. (Drinking.) Yes, I've got it. 

Bun. You haven't — ah ! (Lights lucifer. Bob. puts down 
glass.) Hold the candle steady. 

(As Bob holds candle unsteadily, Bunntthorne lights it 
also unsteadily. Stage light. They sit down again.) 




Bob. (After looking at Bunnythorne.) Tight ! He's 
tight. (Aside.) 

Bun. (Aside.) I'm sorry I didn't keep it dark. 

(During the scene, at intervals, they both endeavour to take 
the bottle at the same time, so that their hands meet, 
they withdraw them immediately, and endeavour to 
talk profoundly.) 



48 

Bob. Do you know, governor, I'm getting tired of this 
sort of life ? 

Bun. I should think so. 

Bob. I feel I'm wasting my abilities, and the best years of 
my life in — in 

Bon. In getting drunk at the " Mompesson Arms." 

Bob. No, governor, I am not drunk ; but I know who is ! 

Bun. (Indignant.) Who is ? 

Bob. Never mind. 

Bun. Who do you mean, sir ? 

Bob. Never mind — Jack Topham. (Evading the question.) 

Bun. (Sneering.) Jack Topham — a pretty friend. 

Bob. Oh ! he's no friend of mine now — we've had a row. 

Bun. Bravo ! What about ? 

Bob. About Miss Brill, the barmaid ; I think Jack's going 
to marry her. However, he cut up rough about her, and we 
had a row. (Tahing bottle. Bunntthoene stops him.) 

Bun. No ; you've had enough already. Talking of Miss 
Brill, Bob, I used to be afraid that you were sweet upon her. 

Bob. Me ! no, governor. My mind is fixed upon Cousin 
Eva. (Stage gets gradually lighter at C. window.) And if it were 

not for this engineer 

Bun. Those beastly railways ! (Amiably.) Bob, my boy, I'd 
give the world to see you grow steady, and settle down with 
your cousin Eva. 

Bob. (Affectionately.) Yes — guv — I should like to settle 
down. I've been stirred up enough already. (Spouting.) 

" For 'tis weary, weary, wasting mind and body at the oar, 
Best thee " 

Bun. Yes — Yes — Bob. I like you in your good humours. 

Bob. Married to Eva. She'll have money. 

Bun. Yes — yes. (Aside.) He is a good affectionate boy with 
all his faults. 

Bob. And you'd allow me something if I was married. 

Bun. Of course I would, Bob. 

Bob. And with that capital I could go to London, and— start 
a new monthly magazine. 

Bun. (Horrified.) What! 

Bob. There is a great want of new monthly magazines in 
London, and I could publish my own poetry in it, and 

Bun. (In a passion.) You idiot — do you want to ruin 
me ? (Rising.) You're no son of mine ! I disown you. Ah ! 
Get out ! 



50 

soon. It's the only hope. Then there's Arthur. He's as hot- 
headed as a boy, and as obstinate as an old man. All the 
inconveniences of youth without its pliability, and the hard- 
ness of age without its obedience to the law of compromise. 
Here he is ! 



Enter Arthur, l. d. 

Art. Well — what news ? 

Doc. She sleeps — for the present. 

Art. Tell me, candidly — candidly — will she recover ? 

Doc. I don't know. (Arthur sinks in chair.) (Aside.) Now 
for it. (Aloud) I have no faith in my treatment — nor in any- 
body else's. 

Art. Is there no hope ? 

Doc. Yes, one. 

Art. What is it ? (Rising). 

Doc. Feme. 

Art. Feme ! 

Doc. Don't fly at the mention of his name. 

Art. He has killed her. 

Doc. No ; 'tis you who will kill her by sending him away. 

Art. Me ? 

Doc. Yes. He, a plebian, has dared to fall in love with the 
niece of a Mompesson. Off with his head — eh ? Let the poor 
devil die of despair ; but no Mompesson must make a mesalli- 
ance, particularly with a rival 

Art. A rival ? 

Doc. Yes ; a rival. I repeat it — rival ! If you havn't yet 
confessed it to yourself, learn it from me; you've dream't of 
making this dear cousin your wife — of refurnishing the abbey, 
of the comforts, the joys of domesticity. 

Art. (Indignant.) Doctor ! 

Doc. Ah ! I've found the wound then. Confess you are 
jealous ! 

Art. No ! (Loudly.) 

Doc. Ah ! ah ! On your honour — on your honour ? 

Art. Oh ! you're the devil ! 

Doc. I wish I was ! For if I were, I'd bribe you to do 
what's right, by giving you the youth (with intention), the 
appearance, and the attractions you possessed thirty years 
ago. 

Art. But let us seek other advice — the London doctor who 
attended her during her last illness. 



51 

Doc. (His hands in his pocket.) I'd give the world to con- 
sult with him. 

Art. I'll write to him. 

Doc. Your letter will not reach London until to-morrow 
evening. 

Art. I'll send — I'll go myself ! 

Doc. There's no railway nearer than Stapleton, and that's 
eight hours from here. 
Art. We'll telegraph ! 
Doc. No telegraph nearer than Stapleton. 
Art. (Crossing to R.) No rail ! — no telegraph ! — no anything 
in this damned hole ! We're in a desert, and miles away there 
are contrivances that annihilate time and space. (Stopping 
with sudden conviction.) And it was I who crushed the pro- 
ject that would have brought communication with the world 
up to this very spot. (Bitterly.) Congratulate me on my 
victory ! I have saved the Abbey, and I have killed 
Eva! 

Doc. (Aside.) At last ! (Aloud.) You see then this young 
man's calling has its noble, as well as its common tradesman 
side. Science commands time and space. King Canute 
couldn't command the tide, but the engineer can build a 
breakwater that compels the roaring ocean to keep within 
its proper bounds ! 

Art. But of what use is all this ? 

Doc. Of every use. Feme is not, I will say, a man of good 
family. Well, he'll found a family, for he is a young and 
already distinguished man. He has that natural patent that is 
the commencement of distinction and nobility. 
Art. And what may that be ? 

Doc. Brains — that coronet worn inside the skull, that no 
revolution can deprive him of. 

Art. But do I understand that you wish me to 

Doc. To give her up to this young man ? Yes, I do. 

Art. (After a pause.) You are asking me to make a sacrifice 

— to exhibit a heroism which 

Doc. Of course I'm asking a heroism — a self-sacrifice. What 
else should I ask of you ? Now take it from your own point 
of view, not mine. I'm a republican — a radical — in modern 
slang, a Red. 1 want to see some of this real nobility I hear 
you talk of. I want to see it, out of a picture, or a genealogi- 
cal chart. I want to see it framed in flesh and blood. In this 
sad business I don't ask you to act like a common man; I 
don't ask you to act like a gentleman — that's easy to you — you 



52 

can't help it. I ask you to act like a Mompesson ! Do you 
remember some time ago, in the year fourteen hundred and 
something, how your ancestor Raoul de Mompesson took ser- 
vice in Germany, and when the Archduchess Something-or- 
other-stein, with whom Raoul was in love, was pursued with 
her husband and children, by her enemies, your ancestor 
put on the Archduke's armour and alone met the foemen, who 
mistook him for his rival, and he fell pierced by their swords, 
and while he held the hilts of their blades to him the woman 
he loved gained the castle in safety ; and, don't you remember, 
how she and the children he had saved offered up prayers for 
the chivalric lover who had died so true a knight, a gentleman, 
and soldier? Well, then, Raoul de — I mean Arthur de Mom- 
pesson, remember your race, your blood, your antecedents. 
Cast all small selfishness aside, receive this young man. Give 
up Eva ! Save her life! Honour commands ! Humanity insists. 
Noblesse oblige ! 

Art. {After a pause, rising.) Tou are right. Send for Mr. 
Ferae. I'll do it. 

Doc. You will ? 

Art. {Extending his hand.) Upon my honour. 

Doc. (Shaking hand.) Mompesson, all over. Raoul re- 
divivus ! (And chuckling at his success.) There's always 
some good in a gentleman, even when he's a nobleman ! 

[Knock at L. D. 
(Aloud.) Doubtless that's him. 

Art. Feme ? (Doctor nods.) Already? (Mastering him- 
self.) Come in ! 

Ferne opens l. d., and appears on threshold. He does not advance 
into room. 

Fer. (After a pause.) Pardon me. I received a note from 
Doctor Brown, which 

Art. (Offering his hand.) Mr. Ferne, I have to ask your 
pardon for what I said yesterday. I was wrong, violent, un- 
just. I trust that you will accept my apology. 

Fer. (Hardly comprehending.) Mr. Mompesson, I 

Art. We must talk seriously. Will you sit down ? 

Doc. (Aside to Arthur.) Bravo ! 

Fer. My position here is so peculiar. But I hardly know 
how I should act. 

Art. There is, I admit, a difficulty ; but no difficulty that 
cannot be overcome. 

[During Arthur's last lines Eva enters r. d. 



Eva. (At door.) There need be no difficulty ; or if there be, 
it is one in Avhicli I am concerned and have a right to speak. 
Art. Eva ! (Advancing to her.) 
Doc. Hush ! Leave them alone. 

Arthur and Doctor retire to loindow. Eva advances 
to sofa. Ferne approaches her. 

Eva. Mr. Feme, let me be candid. Yesterday you told me 
that you loved me. 

Fer. And I spoke the truth. 

Eva. No. You saw me ill — as you thought dying — and 
you spoke from pity. I cannot accept your love as alms. 

Fer. Alms ! 

Eva. I should have been proud of your affection, I must 
decline your compassion. 

Art. (Aside). She rejects him. She is a Mompesson. (With 
pride). 

Doc. (Aside, at bach). Wait a bit. All the Mompes'sons 
on the female side were women, and women are fondest of 
their sweethearts when they quarrel with them. " It is their 
nature to." 

Eva. You and my cousin, and the Doctor, and the rest of 
my kind friends, have treated me as if I were a child, and 

Fer. Eva, will you hear the truth — -the honest truth — the 
truth that a man should tell to the woman he loves — the wo- 
man he hopes to share his life with ? I came here absorbed 
with the small cares of the outer world — unthinking of you. 
I saw you — and the love that I had never dreamt of — leaped 
up at my heart. I remembered the old days in London, when 
I saw you as I see you now, pale — weak — beautiful — and a 
new feeling came over me. The love I feel for you throngs 
my veins, and I speak as I think when alone, and you are not 
near to dazzle me, and make me forget all but the sweet in- 
toxication of your presence. Eva, I have the consent of your 
cousin, I dare to believe I have the consent of your own heart ; 
you love me — your own sweet lips have avowed it. I love 
you, wholly, solely, and truly. Do you believe me ? 

Art. (Advancing.) Yes, I believe him, and you may. 

Eva. Are you sure you speak the truth ? 

Fer. Let your heart answer for mine. My lips are silent. 

Eva. (After a pause, giving him her hand.) Yes, I believe 
you ! 



Art. It's all over, Doctor. It's all over. What shall I 
do? 

Doc. Do ! congratulate them ! (Advancing.) 

Eva. But Miss Myrnie told me 

[Miss Myrnie appears at l. d. 

Doc. Miss Myrine is a deceitful old — but no — why should I 
libel a harmless, necessary cat, by comparing it to a spiteful 
unnecessary old woman ? Miss Myrnie ■ 

Miss M. (Advancing.') Miss Myrnie has heard every word, 
and Miss Myrnie does not think it necessary to defend either 
what she said to Miss Summers yesterday, or what she has 
said to Lord Mompesson this morning. Miss Myrnie has 
done her duty to her own conscience, to her religion, and to 
her family. (Speaking at door.) Your lordship Avill find every 
word that I have told you to be true. 

Abt. M y ltT S80n! }**"»-■ 

Doc. The old devil. 

Enter Lord Mompesson, l. d. 

Art. (Speaking to Doc. as Lord M. enters, and takes a chair, 
c.) He will never consent. I know his prejudices. Now all 
is over ! 

D □ n 

Ste* ?±% A™ 




Lord M. Arthur — Eva — Miss Myrnie has been telling me 
of something that has been kept a secret from me. 

Art. Only since yesterday. 

Miss M. I have told his lordship everything. 

Doc. (Aside.) And a little over. The truth made piquante 
with Miss Myrnie's sauce. 

Lord M. Eva, my grand-niece, is it true that you have 
received the attentions of a young gentleman ° 

Eva. Of Mr. Ferae, — quite true. (Rising.) Mr. Ferae, 
let me present you to my grand-uncle, Lord Mompesson. 

[They boiv, fyc. 



Doc. (Aside.) Bravo ! 

Lord M. And Doctor, is it true that in order not to contradict 
Eva's whims or wishes while she was so critically ill, that 
you and Arthur told her that Mr. Ferae might visit the Abbey 
as her accepted suitor ? 

-rv ' i Quite true. (Together.) 

Miss M. As I told your lordship, they trumped up a story — 

Lord M. (Interrupting.) One moment, dear Miss Myrnie. 
Mr. Feme, you told me, was not exactly a — a man of family. 

Miss M. No family whatever ! No blood, that is s no real 
blood. His veins are plebeian as potato peelings. He is con- 
nected with the railroads. I believe he is a railway guard * 
and his grandfather was a labourer on your lordship's estate. 

Fer. Permit me to correct you ? I am an engineer. My 
grandfather held the Branxley Farm, close to Woodside. 

Miss M. A mere question of detail. 

Lord M. Aye ! — aye ! — aye !. Ferae. I remember. 

Fer. If I may be allowed to offer a remark, I would sug^ 
gest that I was asked here, and that I offer marriage to your 
niece, Lord Mompesson ; that I do so from myself, and with 
no doubt of my own worthiness. I court inquiry as to my 
character and circumstances. 

Miss M. Such impudence ! 

Lord M. Is my niece attached to you ? 

Eva. Let me answer that ! I am ! 

Miss M. Well, if ever ! (Scandalized.) 

Doc. It's so many years since she felt anything of the sort 
she has forgotten all about it ! 

Art. My father will never consent. "We're done, Doctor, 
we're done ! (To Doctor.) 

Lord M. Have you many relations, Mr. Ferne ? 

Fer. None ! I am alone in the world ! 

Doc. Oh ! he's much too good a fellow to have relations ! 

Lord M. (Rising and going to Arthdr.) Arthur, what is 
your opinion? 

Art (The Doctor's eyes fixed upon him.) They are worthy 
of each other. 

Lord M. And you would have me consent ? 
Art. Yes ! 

Lord M. Mr. Feme, Miss Myrnie has done us all a great 
service in facilitating our meeting, and understanding each 
other on this very serious subject. I must inquire into many 
details. We need not enter upon that now. In the mean- 



time, and until we know more of you — which I make a con- 
dition — visit the Abbey in the capacity of my dear grand- 
niece's suitor. I am an old man. I shall not be here much 
longer. I would not see her mother after her marriage 
(mournfully), and I never set eyes on her again. Let me 
make those about me as happy as I can. (Eva takes Lord 
Mompesson's hand.) Dear Miss Myrnie here, I am sure, will 
be pleased that her kind intervention has had so happy a re- 
suit. (Miss Myrnie astonished.) 

Doc. Dear Miss Myrnie, I congratulate you. 

Per. How can I find words to thank you? (Grossing to her). 

Eva. (To Miss Myrnie). And I was foolish enough to think 
that you were not my friend. Thanks ! 

Fer. Thanks! 

Lord M. Thanks ! 

Doc. Thanks ! [All to Miss Myrnie. 

Miss M. (Speechless with rage, masters herself). Don't men- 
tion it — you're quite welcome. I — I will retire to my room. 

Doc. Do — do ! and don't come out again ! (Doctor opens 
door.) 

[Enter Bunnythorne in coat and hat, followed by Bob. 
Bob has a green shade over both eyes. 

Miss M. Good gracious ! (Seeing Bob). 

Doc. What's all this? 

Bun. (Leading Bob to chair). Bob's been having a tooth out. 
Topham on the eyes — but he licked him — I saw the fight — 
Bob licked him. (With pride). The very image of me when 
I was his age. When Eva gets better he's the husband for her. 

Miss M. at window. 
Feene. Eva. Lokd m. 
seated, seated. 

De. Bun. 



Bob. 

" In the rapture of the battle, when whirls wild the foenian's glaive, 
Shall thy image aye be present to the bosom of the brave." 

Miss M. (Coming down to Bun.) Miss Eva is engaged to 
Mr. Feme by my lord's consent. 
Bob. What! * 



57 

Bun. Bob! 

Bob. Never mind, guv 'nor ; the brave heart accepts its 
doom. You can make me the allowance all the same. (Re- 
seating himself moonily.) 

" Though I loved her, yet she left me — it is years and years ago ; 
Once my eyes were dimmed with weeping, now my locks are white as 
snow." 

Bun. (To Doctor.) I should like to know why 

Doc. Not now — some other time. 

Lord M. (As if concluding a conversation.) Tes — yes — yes. 
And if all turns out satisfactory, of which I have no doubt- 

Art. I will give the bride away. 

Miss M. (Sneering.) With all your differences of opinion 
you seem quite agreed on one point, that Miss Eva must be 
married. 

Doc. Tes, we're all agreed on that. (Pointing to Arthur.) 
Aristocrat. 

Art. (Smiling and pointing to Doctor.) Red Republican. 

Doc. (Pointing to Bunnythorne.) Man of business. 

Bun. (Leaning over Bob.) And warrior ! 

Doc. Lords ! 

Bun. (Pointing to himself.) Commons ! 

Doc. (Pointing to himself.) The people ! 

Bun. (Pointing to Bob.) And the army ! 

Doc. Very good ! Let's try again ! High ! {To Arthur.) 
{Pointing to himself.) Low ! (Indicating Bunntthorne.) Jack ! 

Bun. (Pointing to Bob's black eye, and slapping him on the 
shoulder.) And Game ! (Grosses to fire-place.) 

Doc. Come, my patient, no more excitement to-day, or it 
will be too much for you. Let me take you to your room ? 
{Grossing to her.) . 

[Mime, piano, during Eva's speech. 

Eva. A few minutes more to thank you ; so much for all 
your goodness to me. I shall get better ; I feel I shall ! 
When the snow melts from the grass, I shall be stronger ; and 
when the summer covers those black branches with green 
leaves I shall be able to walk down the avenue. 

Fer. With me by your side ? 

Lord M. You, on one side — me on the other. Left to your- 
self your pace would be too fast, and mine would be too slow. 
You have youth, strength, and speed ; I have age, judgment, 
and experience. Let Eva walk between us. 



58 

Eva. (As they are going round door E.) My path must leac 
to happiness when love and hope conduct me, and affection 
and experience guide me — -(Smiling.) — That's progress ! 

[Movement of all the characters. Music ceases. 

Febne. Eva. Lobd M. Abthue. -^ , 

going to door. congratulating 8 JL at <*oor, 

,?™i each other and ^listed. 



Bun. Now, in my time, we should have all stood in a plea- 
sant half-circle round the stage, and thanked our friends, the 
public, for their kind applause ; but nothing is as it should be 
now-a-days, everything is going to the 



Curtain quickly, 



